


Dew Point

by kianspo



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 01:26:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 58,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kianspo/pseuds/kianspo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Pendragon is as popular and successful as a sixth former can be. He hasn’t quite figured out his future yet, but it’s going to be brilliant, he’s certain. At least until some daring stranger on a cool motorcycle topples his world upside down on the first day of school. Modern magical AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dew Point

**Author's Note:**

> **Extended warnings:** underage (all characters engaged in sexual activities are over the UK age of consent), explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, owls being carnivorous, made up locations, possible abuse of certain works of literature, teens drinking alcohol, foul language.
> 
> Special thanks to my beta Molly (secret_chord25) and cheerleader Vero (lowcutjeans). Love you guys!

***

_The **dew point** is the temperature where the water vapor in a volume of humid air at a constant barometric pressure will condense into liquid water. Condensed water is called dew when it forms on a solid surface._

***

“Oh, for the love of me, stop _whining_ , Arthur! I am _not_ messing up your precious radio settings. Keep your knickers on.”

Arthur spared his half-sister an annoyed glance before concentrating on the road again. If this was how the rest of the term was going to be, he was certainly going to end it in prison, getting much more male attention than he had during his Uther-sponsored learning-to-deal-with-‘ _those urges_ ’-where-no one-can-see trip to Ibiza last summer.

“I’m not _whining_ ,” he snapped, because witty comebacks weren’t really his specialty, which was another reason why he found Morgana (and girls in general) so vastly annoying.

“This is all your fault, anyway,” Morgana huffed, drumming her impeccably-manicured fingers against the window.

“Excuse me?” Incredulity made him risk another sideways look. “How is you driving your car into a tree because you were simultaneously engaged in – in—”

“Careful, you’ll pop a vessel.”

“— _sexual acts!_ ” Arthur yelled, and immediately blushed. “With your boyfriend—”

“Oh please, _boyfriend_?”

“Fine, your _flavour of the month_ , then! How was any of that _my_ fault?”

“It was a handjob, Arthur – even you can say it, you great prude.”

“I’m not a prude! Just because I don’t want to hear about my sister—”

“ _Half_ -sister.”

“—doing that kind of – of—”

“Sexual act,” Morgana supplied helpfully. “Really, Arthur, this can’t be healthy. Looking at you – one would think you’re a virgin.”

“I AM _NOT_ A VIRGIN!”

“Hm. See, I’m not sure your embarrassingly amusing act of dry humping Percy at his birthday party actually counts for anything. I grant you, though, it was rather... entertaining. Didn’t know that exhibitionism was your thing, but, just so you know, I’m not judging.”

“Shut _up_ , Morgana,” Arthur hissed through gritted teeth, his face radiating enough heat to make fry-up for an entire school. He got so, _so_ pissed at that party, and Percy had nice arms and a pert bum, and... it was all extremely embarrassing. “Jesus. Could you be any more inappropriate?”

“Oh, I’m extremely appropriate, brother dear – lest you forget, I’m seventeen. You, on the other hand, were clearly born a two-hundred-year-old.” She huffed dismissively. “For God’s sake, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s just sex.”

 _Just sex_. Arthur made a face. Everything was _just sex_ for most people these days. It was always sex _this_ , and sex _that_ , as if the whole world had suddenly entered into heat. It was extremely irritating.

Arthur was used to being the first in everything. He’d spent his childhood and the first part of his adolescence excelling at sports; excelling at his studies to a degree that was impressive but not enough to make him a bookworm; pranking around because, yes, he was human, but not to a point where he’d really become a bully; and generally having fun. He had a lot of friends (Morgana called them cronies, but what did she know, the witch); he worried about exams and uni applications (as much as anyone who had a guaranteed spot at Oxbridge would worry, anyway); he was obsessed with football. He was _fine_.

Then, over the course of one summer, things had changed. All of a sudden, everything Arthur was so good at wasn’t enough anymore, and all everyone was talking about was sex. Those who’d had it bragged, and those who hadn’t bragged even more. It was always ‘Did you hear about Maryann and Briggs? She blew him in the loos before History’ and ‘He just shoved his tongue into my mouth, what was I supposed to do with it?’ and ‘She does that thing, you know, with her fingers?’ It was as though everyone had gone sex-crazy overnight.

Arthur’s immediate entourage was no better. There was Morgana, who seemed to think that talking about sex loudly and in a way that embarrassed the maximum number of people was her debt to society she had yet to fully pay. There was Gwaine, who came to Camelot Institute from a boarding school that didn’t have a sixth form and who was filled to the brim with filthy stories about what happened in shared dorms and loos and bathrooms. It didn’t even _matter_ which parts were crap and which parts were true – the atmosphere was saturated with sex fumes all the same.

Arthur didn’t have a problem with sex. After the debacle with Gwen made him realise that he was, in fact, gay as a pride flag (though perhaps less joyful), he went around researching his options and doing some exploration like every normal teenager who was fortunate enough to both be attractive and aware of that fact. Arthur’s track record to date consisted of a few snogging sessions, a few handjobs here and there, a couple of blowjobs that could have been better had the participants been less sloshed at the time, and one rather ill-fated attempt at anal intercourse that led him to conclude that a) he probably wasn’t a bottom, and b) the whole thing was much more effort and awkwardness than it was worth.

He definitely didn’t have a _problem_ with sex, and he most certainly wasn’t a virgin. What he did have a problem with was how entirely exposing the whole business was. Whether you did or didn’t, everybody watched, everybody commented, and everybody had a theory. As if the unavoidable trials and errors weren’t humiliating enough, it all had to be public property, complete with snickering behind backs and endless ostensibly-friendly taunting. 

Arthur didn’t like to feel exposed. He liked to keep his private matters private, and he’d thank the others to do the same. It didn’t make him a prude. Sex, as he had discovered, was something tremendously, vastly undignified, and it didn’t have to be made any more undignified by gossip or sneering and cheering or any kind of public declarations, really. It wasn’t romantic; it was simply invasive and annoying and—

“Look, there’s a spot,” Morgana pointed as they turned into the student car park. She had one foot out the door before Arthur had even pulled up the parking brake. “There’s Morgause – got to run, goodbye!”

Fuming, Arthur watched as she _frolicked_ , her hair floating in the air like some sort of raven banner of evil, toward the formidable Amazon of a Biology teacher. If there ever truly had existed women who’d given up their right breasts to become better archers, Arthur had always figured Morgause would have been the type.

Morgana, of course, was half in love, as stated by the leather corset and three-inch metallic stiletto heels she was wearing (God only knew how she got away with it – surely, the permission for sixth formers not to wear uniform didn’t go _that_ far). Morgause, who seemed to hate most students on principle, treated her like a beloved pet. It was vaguely disturbing, and Arthur tried his best to never _ever_ think about that.

He picked up his backpack and got out of the car, squinting at the high sun, treacherously promising a mild autumn. Arthur had played football all his life all the year round; he’d learned not to buy the coy act.

“Hello Arthur,” a friendly, slightly timid voice called from behind, and Arthur turned around, forcing a smile.

“Oh, hello Gwen.” He waited for her to catch up with him. “Good summer?”

“Very.” She beamed, her smile bright and blushing, smoothing the skirt of her dress self-consciously. (Raspberry and lilac today, with some elaborate embroidery. Arthur had never pretended to understand Gwen’s fashion sense, but then, it wasn’t like that was the problem.) “Lance and I went as volunteers to a summer camp in France,” Gwen shared. “It was” – a dreamy sigh – “ _wonderful_.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “Right. Um.”

It had been two years since he’d unthinkingly blurted ‘Would you go out with me?’ at her, and he wondered if they’d ever get past this incredible awkwardness. They had gone out for some morbid few weeks until Lancelot had transferred in from some privileged French school, following his ambassador father.

The first day he’d walked into class, Gwen had stared at him with almost visible hearts in her eyes. That wasn’t half as bad, though, as the fact that Arthur had done the same thing, and they had both realised it simultaneously. So far, it was, beyond a doubt, one of the top-three most awkward moments of his life.

The other one came later, when he’d had too much to drink at someone’s older brother party and had joked that Gwen had turned him gay. He was still struggling with the realisation, and it seemed so incredibly funny to his alcohol-addled brain. It didn’t seem funny to Lance, who’d punched him in the face. They’d worked through that since then, mostly due to the fact that Lance was a football fan and Arthur was bloody golden at it, but there was still some deep-seated wariness in their interactions.

“So what about you, then?” Gwen asked, smiling. “You look, um... you look – taller.”

Arthur snorted. “Thanks, I think. It was okay.”

“Now, now, no need to be so modest, Princess,” a familiar voice cooed far too loudly as a heavy arm descended on Arthur’s shoulders with a brazen lack of boundaries. “Tell us every filthy little detail. Did you fuck all the boys on that hippy-happy island? Did they scream for more?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “And hello to you, too, Gwaine. Be more crass, why don’t you. It’s not like there’s a lady here or anything.”

Gwen blushed and giggled, and Gwaine laughed out right. “Oh, Princess,” he said, ruffling Arthur’s hair. “Never change.”

Gwen soon departed with Lance, their arms around each other. They were such a sickeningly lovely couple that people didn’t even tease them much. They had less of chance of producing any kind of scandal between them than the overfried canteen chips had at passing for healthy food. Lance was the student representative on the school council. Gwen brought snacks to kids stuck in detention. They were regular saints, madly in love with each other, and so were the most unexciting thing that had ever happened to the Institute since it was founded six hundred years ago.

Arthur and Gwaine were soon joined by Leon and the rest of the football team. Forgetting Morgana’s needling, Arthur laughed, clapped people on the shoulders, and traded crude jokes with rest of them, enjoying the renewed sense of camaraderie. Despite everything, it was good to be back.

Suddenly, Gwaine stopped walking with the rest of them, instead staring somewhere over Arthur’s shoulder. His eyes grew wide, a hungry smile on his face.

“Fuck me, would you look at _that_?” 

Arthur turned around, ready to see Vivian stick her hand in her bra again or something equally distasteful. What he saw instead was – quite different.

From the far side of the roundabout, in a brazen, gravity-defying glissade, a motorbike was approaching, the tamed roar of its engine flirting with the almost noiseless towncars and hybrids around it. It was the most beautiful piece of machinery Arthur had ever seen – not too small, not too large, all sleek blackness and noble polychrome gloss. It cut through the air as though gliding, its motion seamless yet substantial – drawing attention, but not imposing.

 _Like a wolf_ , Arthur thought, dazed – _a dangerous but unpretentious predator_.

Gwaine elbowed him in the ribs, and Arthur realised abruptly that, while he’d been ogling the bike, he’d completely forgotten that it didn’t ride itself. He looked up at the driver, who was just pulling up into an unoccupied spot, and felt his mouth go dry.

Young, probably Arthur’s age, the boy – man? – was tall and slender, and seemed to consist solely of long lines and sharp angles. Dark hair, windswept, artlessly rebellious; pale skin, flawless. Glass-cutting cheekbones, half-hidden under the silvery-mercurial aviators; lush mouth, curved in a hint of an ironic smirk. Strong jawline; long, slender neck.

He turned the ignition off and stood up, swinging his leg over the bike, the motion sparse but relaxed – tightly coiled power, the muscles in his thigh flexing, vividly on display in his skin-tight leather trousers. He was wearing a jacket, not exactly matching but not too far apart, and a simple black V-neck, buckled boots hugging his elegant calves jealously.

He was, whoever he was, a vision.

“Who the hell is that?” Leon muttered, echoed almost instantly by hushed murmurs of similar expressions of curiosity.

“Mate, you’re drooling,” Gwaine sang sweetly in Arthur’s ear, and Arthur shoved him away. The wanker laughed, but Arthur couldn’t help noticing that he sounded a little breathless himself.

The bloke lingered beside his bike for a moment before turning toward the Institute’s intimidating main building. A strange kind of smile appeared on his face – it might have been called derisive, but Arthur knew somehow that it was more the smile of someone who just happened to come to the end of a cosmic joke and found that it was on him. There was a hint of self-deprecation and acceptance saying that perhaps he deserved it.

He turned his head suddenly, and looked straight to where Arthur was standing.

Arthur’s heart leaped madly in his chest as the guy headed toward him. His stride was unhurried, but not lazy; he looked like someone who kept his surroundings under scrupulous observation at all times without showing it. He stopped a polite (strategic) three feet before Arthur and his friends, his private smile morphing into one of generic civility, friendly but guarded. A lone wolf entering a pack’s territory.

“Hello.”

Light tone, deep voice. Arthur felt a shiver run down his spine at the sound of it, hoarse like the owner of it hadn’t spoken in a while. The cadence was rich, gripping to the bones.

“Could you tell me how to find the headmaster?” the stranger asked, and then took off his sunglasses.

Arthur felt the ground jolt under his feet. The stranger’s eyes were blue; not sky blue – sea blue, Mariana Trench blue. _You’ll-never-forget-me_ blue, and locked with Arthur’s.

Attraction hit him like a physical blow, hot and sizzling, seeping through his skin into his bloodstream and making it boil. He gasped in surprise, and very nearly stepped forward, so strong was the draw, unlike anything he’d ever felt or thought was even possible (fairytales and clichés aside). They were just words up until right now, just meaningless banalities invented by people who had nothing better to do than to write sappy love poetry. He never thought it could happen in real life, but the sensation of _drowning_ – the irresistible pull, the lack of air, the way his body suddenly became sluggish and slow to obey – was omnipresent and crushing.

He was _falling_ , his every sense panicking in the rush to confirm that truth, even as his brain was feebly insisting he was still standing on solid ground.

“First floor,” Gwaine said next to him, because time was rolling on, the stranger was gazing at Arthur quizzically, and Arthur was silent. Like a fish, or a complete moron. “Turn left, then left, then just walk on until you get there. I – _someone_ drew a dick in magic marker on the door, and they still haven’t found a way to get rid of it.” He grinned. “You can’t miss it.”

The boy chuckled, sparing Gwaine an intrigued glance. “Thanks, mate.” His gaze slid back to Arthur, an amused lilt to his voice as he drawled, “See you around.”

Arthur watched him go helplessly, furious with himself, as reality coalesced around him slowly in the form of laughter and Gwaine’s lewd comments. It took Arthur a moment to realise they were laughing at him. He blushed, but was still too dazed to really care.

“Wow, Pendragon, met your match, huh?” Gwaine asked as they finally set off for classes. “And here I thought you were the resident Ice Queen. Tell you one thing, mate.” He slung an arm over Arthur’s shoulders. “You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

 _What the hell is that supposed to mean?_ Arthur wanted to ask, but didn’t. He had no idea what just happened, but he had a bad feeling about it, and Arthur didn’t _get_ bad feelings. They had always been Morgana’s department.

“Well,” Leon intoned pensively behind them, “this is going to be an interesting year.”

Arthur shuddered. He suspected none of them knew just how much of an understatement that was.

***

By lunchtime, the school was abuzz with news and rumours. The embarrassment of the morning encounter still smarted and Arthur tried to pretend not to listen, but found the attempt abandoned pretty soon. First, because he really did want to know, and second, because _he_ seemed to be all people were talking about wherever he went. One would think they’d never had a new student or something.

By the time Arthur was done drawing silly faces in his mashed potatoes, he was in possession of a huge chunk of information, some of which needed careful sorting. Most of it was pretty odd, if not downright unbelievable.

The enigmatic bike owner, whom Arthur had nicknamed James Dean inside his head, apparently went by the worldly name of Merlin Emrys. He was supposedly from somewhere in Wales, was seventeen years old, joined the Institute for Year 13, and was rumoured to live alone because ‘ _he’s got a special permission from his folks or is an orphan or something_.’ The latter titbit came from Vivian, who was a known brownnoser and the biggest gossip in school, so there was a good chance she had actually overheard one of the staff members rather than invented it. She was blessed with many gifts, most of them of a carnal nature, but imagination wasn’t one of them.

Lastly, there was also the rumour that ‘that Emrys fellow’s ( _James Dean_ , Arthur’s brain supplied unhelpfully) summer job was actually a _real_ job, unlike Arthur’s ‘clerking’ for his father, Morgana’s modelling, or Percy’s quest to save all the kittens from all the trees. 

Arthur was reluctantly impressed. The Camelot Institute was a public school, and Emrys didn’t look like someone who had that kind of money at his disposal. His clothes didn’t scream _expensive_ , his bike was gorgeous and carefully maintained but definitely not new, and his very appearance, a certain air he carried about him with a light touch of foreignness and detachment, spoke of someone who was used to fending for himself.

It could only mean that he was here on a scholarship, and Arthur remembered the terrifyingly rigorous process of selecting scholarship candidates from the time his father was still on the school board. (It hadn’t been a pleasant thought to realise that, on an unlucky day, Arthur himself might not have made through the screening.)

Nevertheless, Arthur couldn’t help feeling mildly irritated by the newcomer. This was supposed to be Arthur’s day. Just because he didn’t answer Gwaine’s taunts didn’t mean he didn’t want to talk about his summer _at all_ , or about new strategies they were going to have to implement to beat Mercia at football this year, or about any number of other things.

But Merlin Emrys and his great fucking entrance had pretty much pushed everything else into the background. 

Arthur sighed. Normally, he would have shrugged it off and restored ‘proper order’ by midday, but it was hard to do when he knew he wouldn’t have been as annoyed if he hadn’t made a complete fool of himself in the morning.

He was still brooding by the time they started their first footie practice, and Gwaine, Percival, Leon, and the rest of the team felt it acutely. Usually, the first practice after a long break was spent in a friendly game, kicking the ball leisurely and reconnecting with each other.

Arthur’s mood, however, had set him on the warpath. He made them do laps, interposed with jogging through a line of tyres and walking on the beam, for the whole ninety minutes.

With every new lap, their balance became worse. Geraint tripped over a tyre, fell over and scratched his chin; Lionel bumped into him and had to do a tricky kind of flip to avoid being plastered all over him. Leon lost his footing on the beam and landed awkwardly in a conveniently-placed pool of water. His face registered open alarm as his hand shot out instinctively until it collided with Gareth’s ankle, pushing him off the beam and into the mud as well.

“You’re a prick, Pendragon, you know that?” Gwaine panted, when Arthur declared one more lap before the end of practice. He ran off before Arthur could offer more of an answer than a vague shake of his head. The bugger might be annoying and insubordinate, but he was fighting fit and was the only person apart from Arthur himself who hadn’t made a single mistake.

“Arthur, wait up a second,” Coach called at him when the practice was finally over and the team trickled into the changing room, cursing under their breaths and throwing dark looks at Arthur over the pitch.

Arthur jogged up, sweaty and anxious to get to the showers. He was the team captain, and Coach mostly gave him free rein at practices, so Arthur didn’t think he was being summoned to be scolded.

Coach regarded him quizzically. “Little harsh out there, no?”

Arthur shrugged, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “Got to beat the summer slack out of them. I doubt Mercia is wasting time for chitchat.”

“Quite. Listen, Arthur, I wanted to talk to you about the junior cricket team. You did some good work with them last year.”

Arthur couldn’t help a scowl. “We lost.”

“Yes, but winning isn’t everything.”

 _That’s not what Father says_ , Arthur thought grimly, but settled for a deeper scowl.

Coach ignored it, smiling pleasantly. “These boys, they really need someone to look up to, someone they trust. They quite adore you, as I’m sure you know. And you did some really good work as assistant coach, both for their sportsmanship and their spirit. I know, you’re probably setting your eyes on some ambitious career—”

Arthur suppressed a sigh and looked away.

“—but you’d make an excellent coach in either cricket or football.”

“Thank you, sir.” Arthur shifted from foot to foot, impatient for the man to get to the point. He hated the sensation of sweat cooling on his body, and he really hated when people beat around the bush. But Coach was probably older than his father, and respect for his elders was something drilled into Arthur too thoroughly. Besides, he actually did like Coach. He just wished he wasn’t quite so.... ramble-y.

“Yes, yes, quite deserved, my boy. Quite deserved. I was wondering if you’d be willing to do the same this year? I know you have all this work for your A levels, and football, but if you think you could find some time to spend with the boys? It’d go a long way with them, Arthur. A long way.”

Arthur had never in his life been spineless. He suspected Uther would have thrown him off a cliff back when he was a baby if anything in Arthur’s character so much as hinted in that direction. He did, however, have a hard time saying no to people who asked for his help and really needed it.

It was something his old nanny had drilled into him back when he walked around in short trousers. ‘ _Those who are given much should give back just as much, Wart_.’ Uther had fired her after he discovered that Arthur had stolen the money for the daily housekeeping allowance (in the neighbourhood they lived at the time, it would have been enough to sustain most people for a month) and had been spreading it between all the kids on the playground. The seeds the nanny had planted in Arthur’s brain, though, had already taken in the obviously well-suited environment. 

Besides, he liked coaching the cricket team. It had nothing to do with his locker bursting with valentines the previous year (which, frankly, had freaked him out. Those kids were barely _twelve_ , for God’s sake.) Rather, Coach was right. Arthur could see that he was making them better, even if they had lost in the finals.

But he had his own work to worry about, too. Arthur was by no means a dimwit or slow in any way, but he was one of those people who _had_ to study. He had to put actual work into it to succeed, unlike, say, Lancelot, who seemed to breeze through the subjects by barely making any effort at all and easily excelling. His unconditional acceptance notwithstanding, failure in any of his A-level subjects was not an option.

“I would – love to help, Coach,” Arthur said haltingly, trying to choose his words so as not to promise more than he was willing to sign up for. “But I do have other things, so maybe – not full time this year? If I were to assist at every other practice, then maybe—”

“Oh, Arthur, that would be splendid!” Coach clapped his shoulder enthusiastically. “A few times a month would be more than all right – just so they’d know you didn’t abandon them, you know? They really need encouragement more than exercise at this point.”

Arthur disagreed, but wisely kept his opinion to himself, listening to Coach going on a tangent about the upcoming cricket season and hoped that he’d be allowed to leave some time before nightfall.

When he finally reached the changing rooms, they were empty, the team long gone. Arthur sighed and went straight to the showers.

He stepped under the spray and hissed – the bastards had, of course, used up all the hot water. Arthur hopped uncomfortably, washing quickly. He was sporting a semi, something that often happened to him during or after practice, and, as he’d been antsy all day, he’d been looking forward to taking care of that. The tepid shower only made his frustration peak. With a resigned sigh, Arthur grabbed a towel and slipped into the sauna.

Yes. Oh God, _yes_ , this was heaven. Arthur stretched on the lower bunk, soaking in the blessed warmth. Slowly, he unwrapped the towel around his hips and took himself in hand. He stroked himself to full hardness lazily, trying not to rush it, relaxing and letting his mind drift.

He closed his eyes. Immediately, an image of that _guy_ from this morning appeared on the back of his eyelids. Arthur suppressed an instinctive surge of anxiety and shame and just let it happen.

In the privacy of his thoughts, there was no point denying that Merlin Emrys, that annoying out-of-nowhere genius, was _insanely_ hot. Arthur replayed the morning encounter, tuning out the sounds and concentrating on the image. He saw Emrys swing his leg over as he dismounted his bike, long legs and firm arse fully on display. His trousers probably weren’t real leather – they clung too snugly, repeating every curve. It was a nice arse – small, but not flat, and almost perfectly shaped. What would it be like to touch it, to have those slender legs wrap around his waist, to hear that deep, breathy voice moan his name –

Arthur himself moaned softly, his hand picking up the pace involuntarily, thighs falling open of their own accord.

“Don’t stop on my account.”

Arthur jumped on the bunk, eyes snapping open in panic. He hit his elbow as he tried to sit up.

“Fuck, Kay, you’re such a dick,” he breathed out, slumping back down.

There was a low chuckle as Kay sprawled on the bunk across from Arthur, already naked, one hand on his cock, the other twisting his own nipple thoughtfully.

Arthur was too far gone and this felt too thoroughly earned to stop now. Besides, it was just Kay, and it wasn’t as though they’d never done it before.

Kay was what most people would call an odd one. He was big, broad, and silent to the point where some honestly believed he was mute. He could always be relied on to not have an opinion regarding pretty much anything. He went with the flow for as long as no better idea showed up, and when he didn’t want to do something, he didn’t, plain and simple, not bothering with arguments or explanations.

Arthur had known Kay since they were both thirteen, and those peculiarities of his had been driving Arthur up the wall for a long time. He was a solid presence on the team, a natural-born defender, but it was hard to deal with a person who silently complied with everything until he just _didn’t_ anymore, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. It was utterly frustrating up until Arthur had finally taken a leaf out of Kay’s book and started taking him at face value, leaving any and all attempts to fathom him out.

Gwaine had once postulated a theory that Kay was only playing the idiot, waiting for all of them to become rich and famous, so that he could then slam them all with a revealing memoir about their naughty school years. Owain had then offered that Kay probably couldn’t read, let alone be gifted with any kind of literary talent, but Arthur (during his periods of extreme paranoia, usually brought on by overindulging in alcohol) thought that Gwaine might have a point. If that ever did happen, Arthur shuddered to think what Kay would write about _him_.

It was exactly Kay’s code of silence that made him and Arthur partners in crime about two years back. They wanked in front of each other occasionally, in circumstances similar to the present ones, and sometimes lent each other a helping hand, trading fantasies. Kay was... unexciting, but reliable, since he never uttered a word to anyone, and he wasn’t at all hard to look at, which helped a lot.

Arthur wasn’t into exhibitionism, despite what Morgana had implied. Kay’s presence was merely spicing things up a bit. And Kay was safe.

“I wasn’t too quiet.” Kay’s voice drifted over the steam-filled space. “You were just in the zone. What’re you thinking of?”

Arthur closed his eyes, his body gradually relaxing again. He tugged back his foreskin, finger sliding along the slit, collecting the moisture. Pine-scented steam condensing on his skin made everything slick, warm, and hazy.

Why the hell not?

“New kid. Emrys.”

“Hm.” Kay made an appreciative noise. “Saw him talking to Miss Helen. Nice bum.”

“Yeah.”

“There’s something off about him, though.”

“Like?”

“He’s built like a twink, right? You see him, you want to bend him over and pound him.”

“ _Fuck_ , Kay.” Arthur whimpered, the images flooding his mind like an avalanche. Kay’s dirty talk, which wasn’t so much dirty talk as simply Kay saying whatever came to his mind with no filter whatsoever, was another reason they did this.

“Except then he’d look at you, and you’d start to wonder.”

“Ungh. What?”

“What would it be like—”

“Yeah?”

“—if _he_ bent _you_ over and ploughed you good.”

There was no way in hell Arthur could stave off his orgasm after that, his arse clenching as he slammed into it, cursing Kay loudly every way he knew how.

When he opened his eyes, his hand clutching his still-twitching cock too tightly for comfort, he saw that Kay had already painted his chest with come – the fucker always came silently – and was staring at Arthur with a smirk on his face.

“You’re hot when you’re all worked up, Pendragon.”

“Pervert,” Arthur said, collecting himself off the bunk sluggishly. “I’m hot all the time.”

Kay laughed. Arthur flipped him off and slipped out of the room, towel hanging loosely over his shoulder.

***

After another tepid shower – which came as a relief this time – Arthur dragged himself back to the main building, as he was supposed to pick up Morgana. He really hoped Uther would relent sooner rather than later and buy her another car to crash (they were currently at vehicle number three), because there was only so much of his beloved sister’s company that Arthur could endure without going bonkers.

Morgana, naturally, wasn’t waiting for him in the hall like a reasonable person. Arthur sighed and stalked toward the vending machine, trying to coax a half-decent cup of tea out of it.

“I don’t think kicking it would help,” came an amused voice from behind him.

Arthur turned around to see the head of the Student Assistance Centre pin some kind of notice to the board. “Oh, hello, Miss Mora. Sorry, I was just—”

She chuckled. “Not at all. I did the same thing this morning; it’s how I know it won’t work. Did you lose much?”

“Two quid.”

“Lucky you, I only stopped at five.”

Miss Mora (‘Call me Helen, Arthur, you’re such an attractive boy,’ she’d purred at him, more than a little tipsy, at one of the school council functions back when Arthur was still the student representative and Lancelot wasn’t in the picture. She had apologised profusely the next day, and Arthur had had the presence of mind to assure her he was flattered and not terrified) was a good-looking woman in her mid-thirties, with dark hair, a naughty smile, and a curvy figure that made more than half of Arthur’s form whisper a lust-laden ‘MILF!’ after her.

Despite the Too Much Cider Incident, Arthur liked Miss Mora. She was fun to be around, sympathetic, and seemed to actually remember what it was like to be a teenager, unlike most of her colleagues – the latter regarded the student body with varying degrees of irritation, as if unable to understand why they dressed like adults but refused to act like ones.

Arthur wasn’t too keen on running into her right now, but it seemed that it really wasn’t his lucky day. He decided to bite the bullet.

“Miss Mora, I was going to come by the Centre. You know, about tutoring.”

“Oh.” She smiled at him. “That’s terrific news, Arthur. Can you believe it’s only been one day, and already we’re inundated with requests? It’s practically a riot. Any help would be highly appreciated.”

“Yes, you see, this is what I was going to talk to you about,” Arthur hastened to say, blushing with discomfort. “I looked at my schedule, and I can only take two students this term and only for Maths. I’m sorry, I just don’t see how I can take more, and—”

“Oh God, Arthur, but of course. This is your final year, of course you have to concentrate on your studies. Like I said, _any_ help you could give us would be welcome, but please don’t worry about it if you haven’t got the time. If you can take even two students, that’s terrific. Maths tutors are always in high demand, so thank you for volunteering.”

“Yes, well.” Arthur peered at his feet. “My pleasure.”

It wasn’t, in fact. Arthur hated tutoring, but he wasn’t half bad at it, and Maths was his best subject.

Miss Mora was gazing at him with an affectionate smile. “Have you decided what you’re going to read at uni?”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably. It was another topic he’d rather not delve in. “Not, um, not yet, no.”

“Well, what are you leaning to?”

Arthur shrugged. “My father wants me to become a lawyer.”

“Hm.” Miss Mora looked pensive. “It’s a good choice for you. You argue well, you’re strong with factual material. You could be very good at it.”

Arthur couldn’t suppress a surge of irritation. “My father only wants me to read law so that I could become a politician like him.”

Miss Mora studied him shrewdly. “But that’s not necessary, is it? You like law, and you have a natural predisposition for it. You can still choose it without having to follow the career path your father laid out for you. You don’t even have to necessarily become a lawyer.”

“What would I become, then?” Arthur asked glumly.

She didn’t reply at once. “I can’t tell you that,” she said finally. “But I can tell you this. You have a potential to burn very brightly, Arthur. Even now – here today – people listen to you, look up to you. You’re a natural leader. It would be a shame to let that go to waste. Law could give you the tools you need to fight for a worthy cause.”

“What cause would that be?”

She smiled. “You don’t expect me to answer that for you, do you?”

He grinned and nodded. “Fair enough. Thanks, Miss.”

She patted his arm. “Anytime. If you need more pep talk, you know where my office is.”

Arthur nodded again, both disgruntled with the responsibility everyone was trying to hang on him and flattered by their faith.

“Miss Mora,” he said, suddenly inspired and desperate to change the subject, “do you know that new boy who just transferred, Emrys?”

She looked surprised for a moment. “I met him briefly during his interview. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. He just – came out of nowhere, and I was wondering.”

“Well, he seems like a nice enough one.” She shrugged. “His paperwork is in order, and he speaks Latin like he lived in ancient Rome. Geoffrey – I mean, Mr. Monmouth – nearly had a fit – couldn’t wait to get his hands on him.” She chuckled. “I’ve never in my life seen _him_ excited about a student. It was a unanimous vote.”

“I see.”

“Yes, well. He’s a bit strange, of course.”

Arthur went very still. “Why do you say that?”

Her face adopted an expression of confusion. “I don’t really know,” she admitted helplessly. “I just have this feeling that there’s more to him than meets the eye.”

“Oh,” Arthur said blankly. “Well. Um.”

Fortunately, at that moment, he’d finally spotted Morgana turning the corner in the company of that little weasel Mordred. Arthur bid Miss Mora a hasty goodbye and started for his car, unwilling to deal with the snotty brat on top of everything else today.

“You’re late,” he snapped at Morgana when she finally shook Mordred off and climbed into his BMW. “The deal was you don’t make me wait for longer than fifteen minutes.”

“And you weren’t.” She frowned at him. “What crawled up your arse and died?”

“Nothing.”

“Sure.”

“Shut up, Morgana. You think I don’t know why you were late? Do you know what Father will do to you if he discovers you’re going to that little magic club of yours?”

“It’s not a _magic club_ , Arthur,” Morgana hissed. “And you don’t know anything.”

“I can just see the headlines in the press – ‘Uther Pendragon, famous anti-magic legislator, doesn’t know that his own daughter dabbles in magic arts.’ ‘Magic: Extinct or Real?’ ‘Morgana Pendragon is a Witch. Discuss.’”

Morgana’s voice was shaky with venom. “You are such a fucking prick.”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt. Remember how you told him about your dreams and he locked you in a psychiatric ward for six months?”

“I was bloody five, Arthur. I’ve learned better since.”

“Really? Because I don’t see it. You hang out with all the wrong people, you flaunt your magic in everyone’s faces—”

“Nobody knows about my magic!”

“ _I_ know!”

“Well then, go ahead – run to daddy, tell him everything, if you’re such a bloody coward!”

Arthur slammed the brakes and pulled the car up abruptly, both of them jerking back and forth with the force of it. They stared at each other, ignoring the angry shouts and honks of passing drivers.

Morgana’s eyes were wide, and, beneath the boiling anger, they were brimming with fear, reminding Arthur of that night six years ago when she’d run into his bedroom in the middle of the night, tiny and terrified, and whispered that she’d set her curtains on fire. Arthur had kept her secret ever since, better than she did sometimes.

“I’m sorry,” Morgana whispered. Her lips trembled. “Arthur, I’m—”

“I can’t protect you if you’re this careless,” Arthur said softly.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Does Morgause have magic? Is that why you’re always all over her?”

Morgana looked away, biting her lip. “They’d never have hired her if she had magic; you know that.”

“But she has it, though,” Arthur said, convinced at that moment that his long-term suspicions were true. “And Mordred?”

She looked at him, her face closed off. “I can’t tell you. Please don’t ask about anyone else.”

Arthur shook his head, but he could read the stubborn line of Morgana’s clenched jaw as well as she could his own. He sighed and started the car. “Just be careful.”

She nodded, snuggling deeper into her seat, kicking off her shoes. Arthur drove on.

“So,” Morgana said some time later. “Did you see that new kid? Elena said she wanted to dip him in ice cream and lick it off his collarbones.”

Arthur groaned. Some days, it felt like the universe itself was out to get him.

***

He went to bed early, his dreams filled with stormy blue eyes and amused, taunting smirks. He woke up panting, face buried in the pillow, hips rutting into the sheets. There was no one there this time to witness his utter humiliation and shameful lack of control, but somehow, that didn’t make Arthur feel any better.

***

Of course, because the fates hated him, Merlin Emrys was in Arthur’s English Lit class the next morning.

Arthur… disliked English Lit. It wasn’t that he was averse to reading, although it did require an inordinate amount of time spent sitting still and feeling his limbs go asleep. It was more a combination of two factors. The first – that the school syllabus rarely included anything worth reading, in Arthur’s opinion. And the second – that whenever he read a book and formed an opinion, it was, somehow, always a wrong one. Whenever he spoke up in lit class, it led to everyone stare at him as though he was the weird one. 

Arthur hated it, hated the uncertainty. Maths was easier. There was only one right answer, and nobody doubted his ability to find it. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly depressed, he thought that perhaps Morgana was right, and understanding finer aspects of life wasn’t Arthur’s talent.

His morning hadn’t started well. He’d woken up beaten and sore, his own stupidity at yesterday’s footie practice catching up with him on top of yet another stiffy. Arthur was so grumpy that even Morgana had kept mostly silent on the way to school, seized no doubt by a rare fit of compassion that touched her heart once in a blue moon.

It was the last thing Arthur needed right now – to watch Emrys waltz into the spacious auditorium, a careful smile on his face. Arthur stared at him, torn between irritation and the not exactly pure aesthetic pleasure at the sight.

Emrys was wearing dark skinny jeans that seemed to be painted on him – and really, how _did_ no one tell him off? They were practically indecent – and a grey shirt that, despite its undone collar and rolled-up sleeves, looked a bit too snug on him, as though he’d outgrown it two summers back and hadn’t replaced it. The t-shirt he wore under just barely reached the low waistline of the jeans – hipline, more like – and, as he stretched to pull up a chair, Arthur caught a glimpse of a finely-shaped hipbone.

He swallowed and looked away, but it didn’t help – the overwhelming feeling from yesterday was back. He was hyperaware of Emrys’s presence in the room, of every foot and every inch between them, could have navigated his way blind without a compass.

Arthur chanced another look.

Emrys caught his eye and smiled at him. Arthur scowled; Emrys smiled wider.

Fortunately, at that moment, Miss Mithian had entered and the class began.

Arthur concentrated on listening to people talk about what they’d read during the summer break and gradually relaxed. With each new person, his confidence grew, as their choices seemed lame at best and Miss Mithian didn’t appear impressed. Granted, it normally took a lot to win her over, but this time, Arthur had a feeling that he might.

He straightened up proudly when his turn came. “I read _Translations_ by Brian Friel,” he said in a would-be casual, even bored voice. “And _A Good Man Goes to War_ by Stephen Moffat.”

A hush fell over the room as people turned to stare at him. _A Good Man Goes to War_ was a very recent addition to the list of recommended literature, as it expressed a highly controversial view of well-known and -documented events. Arthur had read the book partly in defiance of his father, who had fought vigorously against the inclusion of the book into the school syllabus.

Arthur stared back at his classmates, pleased with himself. He could see every emotion on their faces, ranging from fear to surprise to disgust. The dominating one, however, was definitely envy and regret for not having thought of such an outrageous choice themselves. Gwaine simply made a face, which no doubt signified his revulsion at the idea of Arthur having read two books instead of one.

“Curious choices,” Miss Mithian said, peering at Arthur calmly. “As Miss Tomlinson has already spoken at length about _Translations_ , would you mind elaborating on your second choice, Mister Pendragon?”

“Yes, Miss.” Arthur cleared his throat. “Well, the book is set during the World War I and is believed to be, to a point, autobiographical. It’s a semi-documentary, in fact, and concentrates on magic users who fought in the British Army. Moffat is believed to have been the last sorcerer of noticeable power, and he depicts his own experience as well as that of his fellow sorcerers.”

Arthur’s jaw tensed as he remembered his outrage as he’d first read the novel. He tried to keep his emotions in check. “According to Moffat, magic users were used as cannon meat. They were organised in special divisions that formed the head of every attack unit. They were the first to meet the enemy and the first to die. Some of them were as young as fourteen years old; some of them were girls. If they were frightened or tried to run, they were shot by the soldiers who marched behind them.”

The silence that fell over the class was absolute. Arthur felt his cheeks burn, even though no one was looking at him – except Emrys. For some reason, he was staring at the side of Arthur’s head as if trying to drill a hole in it.

Mithian coughed. “You are aware, Mister Pendragon, that this and similar accounts were never proved as facts? Stephen Moffat, whatever else he might have been rumoured to be, was a novelist. His work is a work of fiction.”

“I am aware of that, Miss,” Arthur said stubbornly. “However, I’m inclined to give more credence to Moffat’s account than to that of the official chronicles, largely because of the manner in which his book is written. When he spoke of those things, he didn’t sound bitter or angry. He approved of the government’s methods. He was convinced that, as sorcerers had more power than common people, they had a duty to march up front and protect the rest. The only thing he objected to was the way it was done, and that lives that were lost in vain, because the sorcerers were too young or untrained. He says in his foreword that he’d written that book to help in future conflicts, not to condemn the authorities.”

“Interesting point, Mister Pendragon,” Mithian intoned calmly. “And especially since it so strongly diverges from the official version of events. I must say I am surprised that you would be the one expressing this particular view on the matter, considering your father—”

“I am _not_ my father,” Arthur snapped, unable to hold his tongue. 

Mithian contemplated him thoughtfully. “That much is obvious. Thank you, Mister Pendragon. I’m looking forward to reading your essay.”

Arthur sank back into his chair. He wasn’t certain why he was feeling so angry. His classmates’ ignorance and lack of interest annoyed him. Just because sorcerers were rare as rain in the Sahara these days and those few who surfaced from time to time were supremely weak compared to their predecessors (for God’s sake, Morgana could barely light a candle), didn’t mean the world had to forget about them or didn’t need to absolve past crimes. The only people who weren’t indifferent were the ones like his father, who allowed one event to shape his whole life.

Arthur fumed, barely listening to what was going on, until Mithian’s clear voice penetrated his gloomy thoughts.

“Mister Emrys – you’re a newcomer, and perhaps I should have asked you sooner. What were your reading choices this summer?”

Almost against his will, Arthur turned to look.

Emrys was smiling pleasantly, but Arthur had once again gotten the feeling that he was braced – for a fight rather than flight, most likely, but braced nonetheless.

“I read a few things,” he said, sounding more like he was stalling than bragging. “I think my favourite was _The Alexandria Quartet_ by Lawrence Durrell.”

The class went silent once more, but this time for a different reason. Arthur had never heard of _The Alexandria Quartet_ , or Lawrence Durrell, for that matter. He wondered, vaguely, if Emrys had made the title up.

“You are aware, are you not, Mister Emrys, that that title isn’t on the list of recommended literature?”

Emrys lifted his eyebrows. “I wasn’t, Miss, but I’m not surprised. After all, according to the author, it’s about modern love.”

Everybody turned to look at him; Gwaine practically whirled on his chair. “Do tell.”

Emrys laughed, and the look he shot at Gwaine was just like the one from the day before – warm and friendly. “It’s not like that, mate – or, I should say, not _all_ like that. I mean, there _are_ some explicit scenes – done much better than in _Lady Chatterley_ , by the way, though it might be just me.” He smiled around disarmingly, making a few people blush and giggle.

“But anyway, the _Quartet_. It’s like – well, it starts with this bloke and his obsession with a femme fatale of his, and I almost stopped reading at that point, but the language was so beautiful, and the way he depicts Alexandria is... Well, suffice it to say, I kept reading. And with the next volume, you realise that this bloke was so _naive_ and had no idea about how many things were happening at the same time, around the same woman, even, and with every person he knew. His love life barely even registered. And each narrator added layers upon layers to the same events – it’s _amazing_. I mean, in _Mountolive_ , you realise there was a political coup happening at the same time, and it’s just—”

He paused, having noticed at last that he’d gone on a tangent, and smiled in apology. “Well, this book should be on everybody’s list, is all I’m saying.”

The auditorium was silent. They had all been listening the way they rarely listened to each other, or even to Miss Mithian – as if put under a spell by the deep rumble of Emrys’s voice. He sounded so genuinely interested that he made _them_ interested, mesmerised even, and Arthur couldn’t blame them.

Arthur felt both enchanted and mildly sick. Emrys was smart, and not just book-smart. He was one of those people who completely escaped Arthur’s comprehension, who formed original opinions easily, whose conclusions didn’t have visible roots and yet were more precise and astounding than any kind of logical analysis Arthur might have come up with. Emrys spoke freely, but without superiority; one could tell how eager he was to share. He was _involved_ , brimming with ideas. He didn’t just read the book – he _experienced_ it.

For some reason, it made Arthur sigh, earning him a curious look from Leon.

“Entertaining as this has been, Mister Emrys, I have to remind you again that the _Quartet_ isn’t on the list. Neither is _Lady Chatterley’s Lover_ , as both those books are unsuitable for young adults.”

“Young adults should be very grateful for the latter, then.”

The class snickered.

Mithian wasn’t impressed. “Have you read _anything_ from the list, Mister Emrys?”

Emrys’s smile changed. As though Mithian’s words had finally clued him in that he wasn’t in a friendly environment and his openness wasn’t welcome, his jawline hardened, the soft expression in his eyes solidified. He was still smiling, but now it was more showing teeth to the enemy than anything else.

“I wouldn’t know, Miss,” he replied, a little brazen. “Probably. I read a lot. But you see, I have no idea what is on that list and what isn’t.”

Arthur blinked and turned to stare. Sun was streaming down through the tall windows, falling squarely across Emrys’s desk, casting his face half in light and half in shadows. His cheekbones were hypnotic in the way they drew Arthur’s gaze, his fingertips tingling. He shook himself mentally, returning to reality.

It seemed... extremely unlikely, if not downright far-fetched, that anyone who’d made it through the tedious but painstakingly scrupulous process of English – or Welsh for that matter – secondary education would be unaware of what titles were included into the list of recommended literature. Mithian was obviously of the opinion that Emrys was wasting her time, if the way she was frowning was any indication.

Arthur wasn’t so sure. Emrys didn’t strike him as a liar.

“Somebody kindly familiarise Mister Emrys with the list so we can move on,” Mithian requested, the bored notes in her voice carefully emphasised to disguise any traces of anger.

Arthur reached for his manual automatically, even though he was sitting two rows away. He blushed at another look from Leon, and watched with everyone else as Emrys accepted the list from Gwen, summoning a grateful smile for her. She dimpled and nearly dropped a stack of papers between them.

“Well, Mister Emrys?”

“But I read all those,” he said, staring at the list, frowning in confusion. “ _Wuthering Heights_ , _Translations_ , _Down and Out in Paris_ , the – one, two, three – um, yeah, all of Shakespeare’s, _Atonement_ , _Child in Time_ , Attwood, Faulks, Bayatt, Wells – oh God, really? He got it all so wrong with the time travel thing—”

“Are you done, Mister Emrys?”

He halted. “Um. I think so? I’m not big on poetry, unless it’s Dante. Who, you know. Wasn’t English.”

People snickered.

“What about _A Good Man Goes to War_?” Mithian asked, clearly mocking. “I believe that is the only title you neglected to mention in your quest to impress us.”

Emrys flashed her a quick wolfish smile. “Haven’t read that one.”

He was lying. Arthur couldn’t tell how he knew, but he did know with absolute certainty that Emrys had, in fact, read the book. Why would he deny it, it wasn’t forbidden anymore—

“All right, that’s enough,” Mithian said. “Mister Emrys, I don’t know which circus you came from, but here, we have no use for clowns. If you don’t respect yourself or your teachers, at least show some consideration for your fellow sixth formers who, unlike you, seem to care about their futures.”

The smile dropped from Emrys’s face, and he frowned, his whole body tensing. What did he expect, Arthur thought, that she would just take it?

“You will write me an essay, Mister Emrys, for every title you just claimed to have read. You will submit two essays at a time. Failure to produce even one of those will result in a failing grade. Any further disruptions in my class, and I shall ask you to leave.”

That was... basically, a death sentence.

Emrys, however, seemed to have rediscovered his good spirits, because the smirk was back on his face. “Begging your pardon, Miss – and if I don’t fail?”

There was an unmistakable challenge in his tone, but no insolence. He was addressing Mithian like an equal, as if he had no doubts that he could meet her conditions and then some.

From the look on Mithian’s face, she had caught on, too. Arthur was surprised to see the corner of her mouth quivering, as though she was fighting back a smirk of her own.

“In that highly improbable case, Mister Emrys, I will allow your final essay to be on _The Alexandria Quartet_ , and you will have the floor to present it in class.”

“Fantastic.” Emrys grinned winningly. “Thank you, Miss.”

Mithian just shook her head, and the lesson resumed, though nobody’s heart was particularly in it.

“Well, that didn’t take long,” Leon said, accosting Arthur, who was slower than usual in collecting his things after class.

“Hm?”

“Trouble. That guy is trouble.”

“You reckon he’s lying, then?” Gwaine joined them, snatching a pen off Arthur’s desk and flipping it in the air. Arthur snatched it back.

Leon stared. “You can’t honestly believe he’d read all those. I mean, does he look like a bookworm to you?”

“ _Nooo_ ,” Gwaine drawled with a smirk. “But maybe he’s more like me.”

“What, a shameless attention whore?”

“No – someone with hidden depths.”

Leon snorted. “You have _no_ hidden depths, Gwaine. None whatsoever.”

“Except for the depths of your depravity,” Arthur added, herding them to the door and doing his best to ignore Gwaine’s pout and the way his hand slid in the back pocket of Arthur’s neatly pressed trousers for a moment. “And stop that.”

Gwaine smirked.

***

Having an Emrys-free day was proving to be impossible. Arthur wasn’t certain if he was annoyed or relieved by it. He felt as though he was constantly on pins and needles, either excited or unnerved, and tense all over.

Emrys was in his History class, too. Having evidently learned his lesson, he was sitting quietly at the back of the room, gazing out the window, the expression on his face absent rather than bored. Of course, Mister Griffin couldn’t let it pass.

Emrys appeared unperturbed by the interrogation, however. He named every date, with the exception of a precious few, though there was something off in the manner in which he did it. He answered like someone who didn’t learn the dates out of a book, but rather with an absolute confidence of an eyewitness. It was insane, of course, but Arthur couldn’t shake off the persistent impression.

“Very well, Mister Emrys; that will do,” Griffin announced finally, smugness colouring his tone. “And brush up on the dates of magical uprises, would you? They’re part of our history; it wouldn’t do to ignore them.”

“Yes, sir,” Emrys said, and turned back toward the window.

 _Off! Off! Off!_ Arthur’s mind was screaming. There was something about the exchange, about the whole deal with Emrys, that didn’t feel right, didn’t make sense. He couldn’t figure out what it was, but he couldn’t shake the feeling.

Emrys wasn’t at lunch, just as he hadn’t been there yesterday – meaning that, while his physical body was elsewhere, he was still all everyone talked about, and, as such, very much present. Arthur tried to ignore it all, eating his turkey sullenly and trying to pick Leon’s brain on the best ways to beat Mercia.

Later, as Arthur was walking to his next class, he spotted Emrys through an open door of an empty chemistry lab. Arthur stopped to watch before he even realised what he was doing.

Emrys was standing on one knee on the floor, his jeans pulled even tighter around his arse, shirts riding higher as he stretched, revealing a creamy pale sliver of skin. Arthur swallowed. It took him a moment to notice a bundle of puppies whirling around Emrys’s feet, nudging him with their little heads in a half-blind but clearly affectionate fashion. He was laughing as he collected them gently one by one and passed them over to Gwen, who deposited them in a box.

“Thanks so much,” she was saying, blushing prettily every time they seemed to make eye contact. “Someone left the door open, and there’re so many of them – I thought I’d never find them all.”

“It was no trouble,” Emrys said, straightening up as they caught the last puppy. It nuzzled Gwen’s face, and she giggled before putting it safely into the box.

The box shook and squealed, making both of them laugh as they glanced at each other.

“I’m Gwen, by the way,” she said, offering him a hand and blushing more than ever. “Well, Guinevere Leodegrance, really, but everyone calls me Gwen.”

He shook her hand, grinning. “I’m Merlin, but most people call me ‘Oi you, stop defacing my property!’”

“Entirely undeserved, of course?”

Emrys wriggled his eyebrows. “Don’t be so sure.”

Gwen laughed as if unable to help it. “You’re – you’re something else, Merlin.”

He rubbed the back of his neck ruefully. “So I’ve been told.”

Lancelot emerged from the back room at that moment, a confused expression on his face as he looked from Gwen to Emrys and back.

“Um—” he started, frowning slightly.

Emrys saved him the trouble, extending his hand. “Hello, I’m Merlin. I didn’t mean to intrude, but I stumbled over one of those little bastards in the corridor and was just helping Gwen to catch them.”

“I see,” Lancelot said, still looking discomfited. He took Emrys’s hand, wrapping his free arm around Gwen’s waist. “I’m Lancelot, Head Boy and Gwen’s boyfriend.”

He really wasn’t being subtle at all, and Gwen nudged him in the ribs, muttering a scandalised, “ _Lance_!” under her breath, as though she hadn’t only just been flirting with another bloke.

Emrys, however, only grinned wider. “No worries, mate. Guinevere is lovely as a summer day, but if I were to make a pass at anyone’s virtue here, it would be you, not her.”

Gwen gasped, blushed again, and erupted in giggles. Lancelot’s face was a comic mixture of shocked, flattered, and embarrassed in equal measures, and he gaped at Emrys as though unable to produce a word.

And then Arthur witnessed something he thought he’d never see in his life – something he firmly believed to be impossible.

Lancelot du Lac – the straightest bloke in school, possibly in the whole country – had given Emrys what was clearly a blatant once-over, unsubtle enough in his appreciation to rival even Gwaine, coloured slightly, swallowed, looked away, and swallowed again. At his side, his paragon-of-virtue of a girlfriend was eyeing both of them speculatively, almost calculatingly, as though...

Arthur staggered back, tripping and nearly landing on his arse in the middle of the deserted corridor. He let his feet carry him toward the nearest lavatory, where he splashed cold water on his face, and stared at his reflection in shock.

Surely this wasn’t happening. Surely he had just misunderstood.

He tried to negotiate some kind of reasonable solution with his brain, which seemed to be permanently living in the gutter these days, but it was no good.

He was very late for his next class, and the excuse he flung at the elderly mathematician didn’t make sense even to him. In fact, by the time Arthur reached an empty seat and fell into it, he had no idea whatsoever about what his excuse had even been.

Emrys – thank God for small mercies – wasn’t in his Maths class, but Lance was. He tried to catch Arthur’s eye, a distinctly concerned expression on his face, and Arthur must have looked a riot. Arthur blushed and buried his nose in his textbook, noticing belatedly that it was upside down.

He cursed Emrys loudly in his head in his apparently-beloved Latin and wondered if he’d be able to look Lance or Gwen in the eye ever again.

***

Arthur was standing by his locker, sorting out his backpack, when the crowded hall around him went noticeably quieter. He lifted his head and very nearly groaned. Just what he needed right now – _Cenred_.

Cenred and his posse were the resident troublemakers, and not in any good sense. They attended school because their parents couldn’t be bothered to deal with them themselves and paid for their supervision instead (‘ _More like their pimps from the Dilly bout did_ ,’ Gwaine had sneered). They were rarely seen in classes, with Cenred himself as a possible exception, but they were aplenty in the corridors and lavs and all the dark corners, pushing fags, booze, and weed at the student populace. They were also known for ‘settling debts.’

They were a nasty bunch, and Arthur had had quite a few run-ins with them, especially when they’d tried to accost some of the younger boys from the cricket team. The altercations had eventually led to Arthur being forced to cede the Head Boy badge to Lance. (‘ _Fistfights are not how we’re settling disputes in this school, Mister Pendragon. What kind of example are you setting?_ ’) Not that Arthur had been terribly upset about that, even though Uther had thrown a right fit, but there was most definitely no love lost between him and Cenred Kingsley.

Right now though, it appeared as if Cenred hadn’t come here looking for a fight, or at least not with Arthur. He was standing in the middle of the corridor, Myror and Austin flanking him, blocking the path of—

Arthur rolled his eyes. Of course. Emrys. Arthur was surprised it had taken them this long to make an appearance, even though, strictly speaking, Emrys was hardly their competition. All he’d done so far was show up on a cool bike and mouth off at a few teachers. For Cenred, though, that seemed to be enough.

Arthur took half a step toward them, but someone grabbed his shoulder, holding him in place. He looked back – Leon stood behind him with a calculating expression on his face.

“There’s always time for that,” he murmured quietly, and okay, yeah. Arthur was curious, too.

“I’m not sure if you gentlemen have noticed, but you’re blocking the way,” Emrys drawled almost lazily as though the three of them combined didn’t have a dozen or more stones on him. “Is there a specific reason for that, or are you simply three-dimensionally challenged?”

Arthur bit his lip, shaking his head at the sniggering that had followed the quip. Either Emrys had a black belt he wasn’t telling anyone about, or he had balls of steel. Or maybe he was simply overconfident and monumentally stupid. Or both.

“I’m Cenred Kingsley, and this is my school.”

“Charming. Is that why this place is so dull, then?”

Cenred stepped forward abruptly, looming over Emrys. The contrast between their physiques was startling.

“You better watch your tongue, Emrys, or—”

Emrys lifted his chin up, otherwise unmoving. “Or what?”

He was standing with his back to Arthur, and Arthur couldn’t see his face, but he could see Cenred’s. He didn’t know what Cenred saw in Emrys’s eyes, but the effect was almost instantaneous.

After a moment, Cenred paled, and actually stepped back – half a foot, but it was enough.

“Just – watch yourself,” he snarled, but no matter how menacing a pose he cut, the shift of power was unmistakable.

“Oh, I will.” Emrys gave him a mock salute before turning to walk in the opposite direction. Cenred swept up his entourage and stormed out of the hall, shoving people into lockers on his way.

Arthur was too shocked to realise that Emrys was headed straight for him. He pushed right into Arthur’s personal space, resting a hand against his locker, standing close enough for Arthur feel a peculiar smell he brought in with him – something electric, crackling and ozone-fresh, like the air before a storm.

Not having the presence of mind to back away, Arthur was staring helplessly, pinned in place like a butterfly to a wall. Emrys smirked and leaned in closer.

“Have you ever been on a motorcycle?”

Arthur wanted more than anything to come up with something witty or terribly clever to put the pretentious wanker in his place, but his head was spinning at the sudden invasion into his space, at the assault Emrys laid on his senses just by standing there.

Numbly, he shook his head, no longer cognizant of the question, coherency fighting a losing battle against the longing to taste the firmness of the lightly stubbled jaw, his eyes drooping half-closed, his mouth watering.

Emrys’s mouth twitched and he leaned even closer, his lips almost but not quite touching Arthur’s ear, as he whispered, “You should let me take you out for a ride sometime. I think you’d like it.”

The words seeped into him like melted candle wax, pooling low in his groin after scorching him all over. Emrys glanced down and smirked, pulling back, his finger tracing a line of cold fire from Arthur’s cheekbone to his chin as though by accident.

“Think about it,” he said, louder, and winked, disappearing into the sea of people.

“Arthur? Mate, you okay?” someone asked in Leon’s voice, nudging his shoulder.

“Never have I ever,” said Gwaine, materialising beside him, “wanted to be you, mate. Except right now. You really are a princess, Princess.”

“The hell is wrong with you all, I’ve no idea,” Leon sighed and slammed his locker door closed loudly, making Arthur start.

“What,” he said, “the _fuck_ just happened?”

***

The following two weeks went in much the same fashion. Between his studies, coaching the cricket team, keeping his football team in line, tutoring, and watching for bloody _Cenred_ , Arthur felt he was being slowly spread thin, and it didn’t even come with an added bonus of putting the whole confusing business with Emrys out of his head.

Every day, Arthur let out a quiet sigh at the sight of the beautiful bike in the car park, and every day he bit his lip raw, trying to hold back his laughter at new expressions of cheek from its owner.

Upon entering Philosophy five minutes after the bell:

_“Late, Emrys.”_

_“Really, Miss? That’s all right; so am I.”_

And later, in Latin:

_“I think you will find that that was not an acceptable subjunctive, Mister Emrys.”_

_“It pains me to disagree with you, sir, but I think you will find that, in certain districts of Pompeii, there were lupanars or lupanariums – or should we just say brothels? – where the influence of the Greek hetaerae was so um, forceful, even on male prostitutes, that a subjunctive such as this was not only acceptable, but highly recommended for the health and safety of everyone involved.”_

_“... Mister Emrys—”_

_“I’ll just shut up now, sir.”_

And on it went. Leon came back from Modern Languages (Emrys apparently was taking both French and Spanish) red in the face and blistering. No one managed to get a coherent word out of him, and Arthur resolved to ask Morgana later.

“That guy,” Leon said, shaking his head, eyes a little wild. “I mean, how does he _come up_ with these things?”

The trouble with Emrys – or lack thereof – was that he was inordinately cheeky, but not actually insolent, unless provoked, and most teachers liked having him in class. He handed in his assignments on time, he sprouted surprising knowledge at inopportune moments, and he provided entertainment for all involved when a particular schoolmaster wasn’t feeling up to performing.

He was equally compliant when no distractions were wished for. Arthur knew for a fact that Mister Griffin had actually made a deal with Emrys that allowed him to doze quietly at the back of the classroom, provided he kept his mouth shut unless asked.

Emrys didn’t always sleep through History, though. Many times, Arthur had caught him listening to the lecture and the following discussion intently, a plethora of emotions flickering over his face as though he was itching to say something, but then thought better of it and sat through the rest of the lesson in brooding silence. Arthur began to subconsciously track the topics that provoked such a curious response, but so far, he hadn’t gathered enough data to come up with a plausible conclusion.

He realised, at times, with chagrin, that he was spending way too much time on trying to decode the Emrys enigma instead of focusing on his own studies, but Arthur couldn’t quite help it.

He wasn’t the only one. People whispered in corridors, and threw comments and questions whenever they thought they could get away with it. If this was America, the novelty would have worn off by now, some new and brighter distraction arriving to take its place. But this was England, and the fact was that about eighty percent of the student body had known each other since at least age eleven. Emrys – Emrys didn’t fit in. At all. 

What was even more outrageous – he didn’t seem to want to. He rarely popped into the student lounge and had yet to be seen in the canteen. _Didn’t he take lunch?_ Arthur wondered – until an accident shed some light on that.

Arthur was out on the pitch early for the cricket team practice when he spotted a familiar lanky figure heading for the woods that flanked the Institute’s territory on the west side. Arthur remembered re-enacting the legend of Robin Hood there with Morgana and Gwen when they were younger, back when Morgana and Gwen were still best friends. (Gwen was Robin, Morgana was Maid Marian, and somehow Arthur always got stuck playing the Sheriff of Nottingham. Nobody thought any of that was strange at the time.)

Emrys seemed to have adopted an oak tree, or perhaps it was the tree that adopted him – it wasn’t clear. At any rate, after that first time, Arthur made sure to check one way or another, and sure enough, that was where Emrys invariably spent his lunch break, munching on an apple (always just one green apple) and reading a book. Sometimes he was joined by Gwen and Lance, the three of them sitting cross-legged on the ground, talking and laughing and sharing the ham and pigeon sandwiches that Gwen made. (Arthur remembered those from the time he and Gwen had been dating. They were delicious.)

Most days, though, especially when the weather was foul, Emrys was there alone, even though Arthur knew for a fact that he’d have gotten an offer to join almost any table at the canteen had he chosen to go there. It was... odd.

But even more than that, there was a peculiar feeling gnawing at Arthur’s insides as he watched the same routine every day.

One green apple. Unless Gwen was there to share her food, it was always just one green apple.

Did Emrys have some kind of eating disorder? An allergy? Or was he – was he poor? So poor, in fact, as not to be able to buy a (granted, ridiculously overpriced) lunch at school?

The thought had always left Arthur sick in his stomach, as his observations did nothing to confront that theory. The clothes Emrys wore were incredibly, outrageously sexy, but not new. His jeans were often frayed at the seams; the fit of his shirts too tight not due to fashion, Arthur suspected, even though he readily indulged in ogling the results, but most likely because they were purchased before his shoulders had widened like that or his chest had filled out properly.

He knew he shouldn’t be noticing these things, shouldn’t be paying that close attention, but he couldn’t help it. He shared more filthy fantasies with Kay over the course of those two weeks than he had in the previous two years, but when he was drifting to sleep every night, he sometimes envisioned a very different kind of fantasy, something too embarrassing to tell anyone or even acknowledge to himself.

That ‘something’ often involved taking Emrys out to dinner or buying him cashmere sweaters or other things equally horrifying and ridiculous. Emrys would probably punch him in the face – and with good reason – if he ever found out. Yet Arthur couldn’t get rid of those thoughts, and often fell asleep with a smile on his face – only to wake up a few hours later hard as a rock and cursing Emrys’s very existence.

He had a reason to curse, too. After the showdown in the hallways during their second day at school, Emrys had more or less ignored him.

Okay, that wasn’t true, strictly speaking. Whenever they ran into each other, which happened quite often, Emrys didn’t pretend he’d never met Arthur before or avoid his eyes or anything of the kind. Instead, he’d smile at Arthur, wide and bright, as if Arthur had just made his entire day simply by being there.

Arthur didn’t get it. Back at the lockers, Emrys had been unquestionably forward, aggressive even as he made a pass. And he _had_ made a pass. Arthur had an entire football team calling him _baby_ and other stupid pet names for a week until he beat it out of them during practice as proof. He hadn’t imagined it.

If he had been Gwaine, or Percy, or even Arthur himself, it would have been followed by more of the same – by leering perhaps, or some obvious eye fucking, or lewd comments and bad pick-up lines. It would have been followed by _something_.

Alternatively, if there was no real interest beyond the first interaction, there would have been silence and lack of eye contact and refusing to acknowledge the other’s existence.

Emrys – because he was simply incapable of doing anything the way normal people did or because he was intent on ridding Arthur of the pesky and erroneous illusion that he was sane – didn’t do either, and instead continued to beam at Arthur at every opportunity.

They were strange smiles, too. They never failed to take Arthur’s breath away, lighting up the whole room, but they weren’t intentionally seductive. No, those were more of a ‘ _I’m so happy to see you_ ’ kind of smiles, or ‘ _My day sucked until you walked in_ ,’ or even ‘ _You look so cute when you’re scowling_.’ They were always delighted, often teasing, and sometimes flirtatious, but that was it.

He never said a word to Arthur, apart from a single incident when he’d asked for a spare pencil.

Spare might have been the wrong word, though. Among other things on the long list of oddities and peculiarities about him, Emrys had never been seen carrying a schoolbag, or books, or indeed anything pertaining to studying. He had a small, battered notebook, half-filled with notes by the looks of it, that he carried in a pocket of his ever-present leather jacket, and a pen that seemed to serve as a chew toy more than anything else. Sometimes – like at lunch – the jacket would also produce a scruffy paperback from its depths, but that was it, really.

So when the quiz sheet came with a note: ‘ _Please fill out in pencil only_ ,’ Emrys had no choice but to turn to Arthur, who may or may not have deliberately chosen to sit next to him in the hopes of finally getting some kind of explanation or reaction or, again, _something_.

“You wouldn’t happen to have two of those?”

Arthur had blinked. Was that it? He’d reached into his backpack, taken out the five spare pencils he was carrying with him, laid them out on the desk to determine the sharpest, and finally handed one over.

Emrys had been watching him with a bemused smile. “Thanks, mate.” A pause. “That’s a lot of pencils.”

“I like to come in prepared,” Arthur had said pointedly.

“That’s... commendable.”

Arthur had gotten the distinct impression that he was being laughed at in a manner that he wasn’t considered smart enough to understand. He’d huffed, not deigning to say anything else.

The rest of the hour was spent in silence, penetrated only by the scratchy whisper of graphite against paper. Emrys had breezed through the test in his usual fashion, making one wonder if he’d even read the questions, and was off, leaving Arthur’s pencil on the desk behind him with another beaming smile.

Arthur seethed. It was as if the incident in the hallway had never happened.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Arthur,” Leon snapped at one point during lunch, tired of Arthur’s brooding. “Stop being such a ninny and go talk to him or snog him or something! You’re being insufferable, and Gwaine might expire of smugness.”

Arthur sulked. Leon did have a point in that Gwaine certainly seemed to have made himself at home where Arthur appeared to be unwanted.

It started the next day after the hallway standoff. Gwaine tracked Emrys down and tried to bum a fag off him. Emrys didn’t smoke, but they ended up talking, and, by the end of the week, much to Arthur’s irritation, they seemed to become mates.

Gwaine flirted, and Emrys flirted back. Gwaine would wrap an arm around his shoulders or indeed around his waist, ‘accidentally’ sliding his fingers under the hem of his shirt, and Emrys would look at him, flushed and amused, and allow it. Gwaine would ask him to explain one thing or another from class, and Emrys would readily comply, only to be confronted by: ‘ _Sorry, mate, can’t hear a word you’re saying – your mouth is too damn distracting_.’

Instead of punching his lights out, Emrys would laugh out loud, the deep, rumbling sound of pure joy, and call Gwaine a few choice names that sounded more like endearments than anything else.

Arthur, being one of the very few people who’d never, for some reason, succumbed to Gwaine’s charms, was annoyed out of his mind.

Gwaine went as far as to invite Emrys to the upcoming footie match against Mercia, which made Arthur see red. Sadly, no one seemed to be sympathetic toward his problem.

“I don’t even know what your problem _is_ ,” Leon said, when Arthur kicked the ball hard enough after the practice was over to both leave a dent on the metallic door of the locker and stab his toe. “It’s not like we sell tickets to the games or anything. Emrys probably would have come anyway.”

“I don’t want Gwaine distracted!” Arthur snapped, jumping around on one foot, cursing loudly.

Leon gave him a look that schoolmasters normally reserved for particularly exasperating brats. “I’m beginning to feel seriously worried about you. If you need to get laid this badly, I know a few spots in town where—”

“Fuck _you_ , Leon. Sod off.”

“Your eloquence, Arthur. Oscar Wilde would be so proud.”

Arthur laughed and threw a dirty flannel in his face.

“Gross,” Leon commented, picking it up with his thumb and forefinger with a squeamish grimace.

Leon was the oldest friend Arthur had. Quiet and introverted, too serious sometimes, hiding a five-year-old’s sense of humour behind an early beard and intimidating spectacles, Leon was fiercely loyal, painfully honest, and held the title of the group’s resident sceptic. Arthur had trusted him implicitly, even though he did wish sometimes that Leon would lighten up.

He’d never been attracted to Leon, but once, after the whole Gwen fiasco that, fortunately or unfortunately, coincided with the discovery of alcohol and Gwaine picking the lock on Uther’s liquor cabinet, Arthur woke up in Leon’s bed with a pounding head and a hazy recollection of some awkward tumbling and falling asleep in the middle of – well, something.

‘That’s it,’ Arthur had said, staring into his best mate’s morning-after face. ‘I’m never drinking again.’

There was a certain cool draft between them for a couple of weeks after that, but they’d gotten over it fairly quickly, mostly by pretending it never happened. They were one of the lucky few pairs of best friends who recovered from a hiccup like that with their friendship intact.

Except, Leon would stare at Arthur sometimes as though unaware he was doing it, a vaguely sad expression in his soft blue eyes. It made Arthur uncomfortable, but he had a feeling he couldn’t call Leon on it. Those times were blessedly rare.

What was more, Leon, as Arthur had noted, was one of the very few people who weren’t the tiniest bit intrigued by Emrys, let alone smitten with him. Arthur found it a bit strange. Sure enough, Emrys called way too much attention to himself, was bright and loud, for lack of better description, – but so was Gwaine in his own way, and Leon had never had a problem with him.

It _was_ weird, but there were only so many things Arthur could concentrate on at any given time, and, apart from a stray mental note or two, he didn’t give it much thought. The upcoming footie match was mercifully doing a great job at distracting him from all the confusion.

***

Mercia Academy and Camelot Institute had a long standing tradition of rivalry. It wasn’t quite as glamorous as that between Oxford and Cambridge, but it definitely had its moments. Having started long before Uther’s time, it had reached its peak then and hadn’t abated since.

For Arthur, it meant first and foremost the rivalry on the football field, all the more fierce after he’d made captain at Camelot and Edmund Valiant had wrestled his way to the same position at Mercia. By unfortunate coincidence, Arthur had gone to the same prep school as him – something that Gwaine never failed to mention when he wanted to get on Arthur’s nerves – and was not at all fond of the memories.

Valiant was a prick of epic proportions. Back at prep school, he’d amused himself by ripping other kids’ uniforms and flushing their textbooks down the toilet. He’d taken away their valuables and if they’d tried to resist, he’d handed back shiners. It wasn’t that he wanted for anything, but, as Gwaine would say many years later, ‘the wanker gets off on making people cry.’

It seemed, by all accounts, an accurate description. When Cenred cornered people in dark alleys, there was a method to his brand of intimidation. He wanted money or power or sex – he always wanted something. Valiant seemed to enjoy the act of bullying itself, and so there was no hope that he’d ever stop.

He never picked on Arthur, because Arthur was probably the world’s most athletic toddler to later become an equally athletic child. He’d once tried to team up with Arthur, because Arthur had liked to push people, too, and maybe there was a time when he’d liked it a bit too much, but Valiant never seemed to get that it was for a different cause and to a different effect.

It was about that time that Arthur had realised why the other kids had never complained, too scared of the retribution. So Arthur went to the schoolmaster in their stead, and from then on, it was war.

Arthur had learned many a lesson from it, most importantly to never let others try and solve your problems for you – even if it was their job, and oh yes, that Valiant was a prick who only understood one kind of language.

It got a little better when they got send to Camelot and Mercia respectively, but regular crossing paths at various sporting events had ensured that they never forgot each other. It had become steadily worse as they’d grown older, but last year had taken the cake.

It was at the junior league cricket tournament, and Mercia’s team hadn’t even been playing. Valiant, however, made sure to attend. Mysteriously, in the middle of the game, Arthur’s team had begun to show signs of severe food poisoning with charming symptoms that included projectile vomiting and diarrhoea, and not all the boys made it off the field before succumbing to either. The team had been disqualified, twelve children were hospitalised, and although those of them who were less groggy had given a pretty conclusive description of the ‘caterer’ who fed them the smoked ham sandwiches, no measures were taken to rectify either the game results or Valiant’s deceit.

Arthur had been livid. It had taken a combined effort of Leon, Percy, Gwaine, Kay, and Morgana (who went to Northumbria supposedly to support her brother’s coaching career, but really to make out with a chemistry teacher nearly twice her age) to stop him from rushing after Valiant and nailing him to a tree with a tyre lever, since they’d wisely confiscated all the cricket bats. Instead Arthur had to explain to the distressed parents how something like that had happened on his watch. It hadn’t been a pleasant weekend.

Arthur was itching for a chance to give Valiant what he deserved. Fortunately, his teammates were in a similar mood, and all the extra drills and doubling of the practice time were accepted without question.

It was a home match for Camelot, which was a good thing, even though Arthur wouldn’t have minded driving the point across in a more hostile environment. But being on Camelot’s pitch meant that Valiant would have a lesser chance to cheat one way or the other, and that counted for something.

“Mercia’s here,” Owain announced, striding into the changing room where most of the team had already donned their reds. “By the looks of that bus, they brought half the school to cheer for them.”

“It wouldn’t matter if the Queen cheered for them. We will win tonight or die trying,” Arthur declared, pulling at the laces of his football boots viciously.

“Whoa, Arthur, take it easy, mate.” Leon shot him an alarmed glance. “Nobody’s dying tonight. It’s just a footie game, yeah?”

Arthur ignored him. “All right, you all know what to do. Perce, we’ll be on the offence tonight, so watch out for counterattacks; that Anderson git is quick like a bloody snake, and he likes bowling it into lower corners – make sure he doesn’t trick you. Owain and Kay, you’re at my beck and call. Leon – take care of Brady, he’s your mark. Gwaine – where the fuck’s Gwaine?”

“Keep your panties on, Princess,” Gwaine said, entering the room on the run. “I’m here.”

“Where the fuck have you been?”

Gwaine grinned, kicking his trainers off and pulling his shirt over his head as he stopped by his locker. “Showing my special guest to his seat. Not against the law now, is it?”

Arthur gritted his teeth. He’d almost – _almost_ – forgotten about Emrys.

“Stopped for a quick blowjob, did you?” Owain taunted, while others sniggered. “Bad for performance, mate.”

Gwaine flipped him off with a lewd smirk. “I’ll collect my spoils after we win, bitch.”

“Oooh, finally! Can I watch?”

“Me too!”

“And me!”

“I think we should all come.”

“Fat chance _you’re_ coming.”

“Maybe, but at least I’ll be _coming_ , whereas you and your teeny tiny prick—”

“Can it, the lot of you!” Arthur snapped, furious. He had worked himself into a right state anticipating the match, and this – he didn’t need this. “This is serious! They beat us last year—”

“The referee had it out for us,” Geraint muttered.

“I don’t give a rat’s arse about that.” Arthur glared at them. “We go out there tonight and we play so that no matter how they cheat or who they bribe, they get their arses kicked.”

“Hear, hear!”

“Damn right!”

“It’s time, boys,” Coach said from the doorway, and the team began to trickle out one by one.

Arthur grabbed Gwaine who was tying his hair with a piece of string by the elbow. “I don’t care if it’s your boyfriend or your mother. You’re ever late like this again, you’re off the team.”

Gwaine’s eyes clouded with anger as he shook Arthur’s hand off him. “I wasn’t _late_. And you don’t get to threaten me just because I got lucky where you didn’t.”

“What the _fuck_ did you just say?”

“You heard me.”

“I heard some _noise_ coming out of your mouth. Are you not man enough to repeat—”

“ _Arthur_!” Leon said sharply, hovering by the door. “Are you out of your mind? Leave him the fuck alone – the match is about to start!”

With a final glare, Arthur gestured for Gwaine to move out, closing his eyes against the overwhelming urge to hit him. He shook Leon’s hand off his shoulder irritably and burst onto the pitch.

***

The match was a disaster; or at least the first half of it was. The overcrowded Camelot stands watched in confusion and growing horror as their brilliant forward and centre back acted as though they’d never played together before in their lives, having no idea how to read each other’s signals and inevitably sabotaging one another.

Thirty minutes in, Arthur was shaking with fury. He was open and managed to shake off his mark three times – _three perfect opportunities!_ – but Gwaine failed to make the pass, either deliberately ignoring him, or not paying attention. But he was paying _plenty_ of attention to the stands, particularly to left sector of it where Emrys was sitting next to Lance and Gwen, watching the match avidly.

Had Arthur been in the mood to be charitable, he’d have admitted that Gwaine had a reason to be distracted. Emrys was wearing the same snug trousers he wore the first day of school, a tight black tee, and... God have mercy, was that _eyeliner_? Arthur nearly tripped himself, making his Mercia mark laugh.

“Keep it up, Pendragon! We wouldn’t mind an own goal, either.”

No, Arthur really wasn’t in the mood to be charitable. Mercia players were notoriously brutal – going foul for foul with them would result in a confetti burst of yellow and red cards, and a single lapse in attention might mean broken limbs.

Arthur needed all his concentration, but it was slipping, because Gwaine would run along the left side of the field, bunching his shirt up to wipe the sweat off his face and flash his six pack at the stands to loud cheers. Arthur’s focus was horribly off, because he just _had_ to know if Emrys had looked. It was unprofessional and had very nearly cost them a goal – only Leon’s quick actions on the defence line and Percy’s sharp reflexes saved them from an almost certain humiliation.

Coach was not amused. He stormed into the locker room seconds after the team retired there for the half-time break, glaring at his players.

“You lot, out,” he snapped at the room at large, who followed the order quickly. “You and you!” Two pointed fingers at Gwaine and Arthur respectively. “Whatever’s between you – I don’t want to know. Sort yourselves out or I’m calling up substitutes and both of you will spend the whole bloody season on the bench. I mean it, Greene. You too, Pendragon.”

He slammed the door behind him, leaving Arthur and Gwaine to glare daggers at each other in silence.

“Give me one good reason,” Arthur growled, “why I shouldn’t punch your brains out. What the hell was that out there, Gwaine? That was the most stupid, unprofessional, _idiotic_ behaviour that I’ve ever—”

“Oh, come off your high horse, will you? Yeah, so I got a little distracted, but it wouldn’t have been half as bad if _you_ didn’t lose your head completely, you jealous pillock!”

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“Cut the baby-blues-innocent-act bullshit, Arthur! You _know_ what I’m talking about. You want him; I get it – bloody hell, do I ever get it. And you’re mad at me, because you think I’m in there. You’re so mad at me, you don’t care about the game anymore or the team or even Valiant!”

“Gwaine, I’m _warning_ you—”

“I’m not _in there_ , you moron!” Gwaine yelled. “Sure, I’ve tried – can you blame me? The guy’s like a walking aphrodisiac. And he’s funny, and bloody _solid_ , and like no one I have ever met, so yeah, you bet your arse I’ve tried!”

“I don’t—”

“I wasn’t _subtle_ , Arthur. I don’t _do_ subtle, I call it like I see it, and I don’t beat around the bush. So I pretty much told him he could have me, or I could have him, anytime, anywhere, in any position he fancies, any number of times. I was crystal clear, Arthur, I was so fucking blunt – a handicapped alien would have understood me. And d’you know what Merlin did? He laughed it off. Every time – he _laughed it off every time_. Do you know what that means?”

“That he doesn’t speak tart?”

“No, you great bloody idiot. It means he’s not interested!”

Arthur blinked and stared, a curious emptiness filling his head.

Gwaine was still glaring at him. “Whatever your problem is, Arthur – for fuck’s sake, work it out with him and stop taking it out on me.”

“If that’s what you think,” Arthur said slowly, “then what the hell was that spectacle out there just now?”

Gwaine jerked his shoulder in an aborted half-shrug. “He pretty much made a declaration in front of the whole school, and until forty-five minutes ago, it didn’t exactly look as though you gave a shit.” He rolled his neck, his mouth twitching in a shadow of his ever-present smirk. “I like him a lot. Can’t blame a bloke for trying.”

Arthur deflated. “A declaration?” he asked weakly.

Gwaine glanced at him and shook his head incredulously. “You really are a moron, Princess.”

And just like that, Arthur knew they were going to be fine. If Gwaine was back to using his nickname, he couldn’t be too mad anymore, and Arthur... Arthur could barely breathe for the sudden pressure in his chest, as though his ribcage was expanding, shrugging off whatever bindings that were keeping it at half-capacity.

_They’re not dating. Gwaine isn’t sleeping with him. He doesn’t want Gwaine. He doesn’t want Gwaine!_

Before he knew it, Arthur was grinning. Gwaine rolled his eyes.

“I hope you two are getting along like peas in a bloody pod, because it’s time,” Coach said, reappearing in the locker room scowl-first. “And you’d better come up with some kind of strategy, Arthur, because so far, it doesn’t look good.”

Arthur exchanged another glance with Gwaine, smirked, and winked at Leon’s worried face, hovering above Coach’s shoulder. “I think I know just the thing.”

***

Mercia didn’t know what hit them. Arthur had always been a meticulous planner, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t good at thinking on his feet when his plans went to hell.

It was easy, really. Since Mercia was convinced after the first half that Camelot was all over the place and in shit form, it wasn’t a stretch to play up to that impression, catching their opponents on their own cockiness. Arthur knew Valiant and his teammates well. He wouldn’t want to score as soon as he got the chance – he’d want to thoroughly mock Arthur first.

He paid for it. The first goal, courtesy of Owain, left Mercia stunned. The wakeup call made them angry, and they fell easy prey to Gwaine’s second with Leon’s assist. The game became brutal after that, but Arthur had never been surer of his players, who acted once again like team they really were, every practice and every drill coming in handy. They were winning anyway, the stands cheering madly as the minutes ticked down to the final whistle.

Arthur didn’t need a coup de grace, but he took the chance when Gwaine sent the ball to him in a sky-high arch across half the field. Arthur froze for a split second, waiting if the sideline judge would declare an off-side, but the moment stretched, and nothing came, and Arthur leaped toward the ball, his back to the Mercia gates – not an ideal angle for a shot. Later, he’d never be able to tell how he did it, the impossible thing he’d only ever seen once and never tried.

He leaped into the air, arching backwards, and kicked the ball with his foot, while flipping over his head. He hit the ground hard and lay there, watching upside down as the ball hit the lower left corner of the net, flying straight between the raised arms of the Mercia keeper.

There was a deafening roar from the stands, and then Arthur was submerged under a mountain of hard, heavy, panting bodies, screaming their delight, and he couldn’t breathe but he laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

Later, after his team was done tossing him up in the air, after Gwaine had tackled him to the ground and they rolled on and grappled until people around started catcalling, after he’d taken a shower and changed, Arthur was still feeling as though he was filled to the brim with power, as though he could do anything.

“Oi, Arthur, where’re you going?” Leon called after him, as Arthur broke away from their formation. “Coach is throwing us a party at Alfie’s. He even threatened beer.”

Arthur threw a dismissive hand in the air without turning, his eyes on the lonely figure headed for the car park while everyone else was walking in the opposite direction. “Go ahead without me.”

“But—”

“I’ll catch up with you!”

Arthur broke into a run, barely feeling the ground beneath his feet.

Emrys stopped beside his motorcycle, digging the keys out of his trouser pocket. His head was bent low, as if he was deep in thought. Arthur slowed down, approaching him, his chest heaving, lips stretched in a shit-eating grin he couldn’t fight.

“Hey!”

Emrys looked up sharply, his whole stance tensing for a fight. At the sight of Arthur, he smiled. “Hello.”

Arthur walked up closer. “You’re leaving? Everybody’s going out to celebrate.”

Emrys leaned against his bike, crossing his long legs in front of him. He shrugged, his grin crooked. “I’m not much of a party animal,” he admitted. “Congratulations, by the way. Your goal was amazing.”

“Thanks,” Arthur breathed out, flushed, as he stopped right in front of him.

Emrys was peering at him from under his lashes with a mixture of amusement and teasing, and Arthur felt once again completely out of his depth – as though he could win a hundred matches and play for England, but one look like that and he’d be left breathless and groping for words.

“Um. You sure you want to leave? Gwaine will be devastated, you know.”

Emrys gave a little laugh. “I’m sure he’ll find someone to console him in his misery.”

Arthur snorted. “Yeah, probably. Um.” He shifted from foot to foot. “I might... not be willing to go back there, either.”

“Is that so?”

Arthur blushed and, nodded, staring at his feet, as he blurted out: “So how about that ride, then?”

There was a pause. Emrys unfolded from his perch against the motorcycle and stepped closer to Arthur. He pressed two fingers under his chin and lifted it up to make Arthur look at him. “Are you sure?”

Arthur swallowed. It felt like a loaded question, and the dark blue eyes set on him were too intense, turbulent, _smouldering_.

“I want to,” Arthur said, his voice not failing by some kind of miracle. “If the offer still stands.”

Emrys’s lips curved in a smirk that felt, once again, self-ironic. “Oh, it stands, all right. But—”

“What?”

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.” He dropped his hand and offered it to Arthur instead. “I’m Merlin.”

Arthur took it and nearly jumped, the touch stinging momentarily as though they both grabbed at a stray baby lightning bolt and squished it between their hands. Emrys’s – _Merlin’s_ – eyes widened for a split second as if he, too, was taken by surprise.

Arthur cleared his throat. “Arthur.”

Merlin grinned. “Ready to go then, Arthur? Hop on.”

Arthur waited for Merlin to mount his bike before swinging his leg over it to sit behind him. He wasn’t going to act coy, and although there was plenty of space, he shifted forward without hesitation, until his crotch was pressed against Merlin’s arse, his legs glued to the back of Merlin’s thighs, hands coming to rest at Merlin’s hips.

“Wait,” Arthur said suddenly. “No helmets?”

Merlin twisted around to face him, smiling, but his eyes were serious. “I will never let you fall, Arthur.”

There was something in the way he said it, so simple yet unshakably sure, and Arthur felt something inside him melt. He knew at that moment he was lost, because he didn’t know Merlin from Adam, but he trusted him with his life like he never trusted anyone. 

He _trusted_ Merlin.

It was defying all reason. It was absolutely insane. There was nothing he could do about it.

He shifted his grip from Merlin’s hips to his waist, sliding even closer. “All right then. Shall we?”

Merlin’s answering smile was blinding. He kick-started the bike, and they were off.

***

The ride was exhilarating. Arthur hadn’t had a drop of alcohol, but he _felt_ drunk – he felt _high_ as they shot like an arrow through the dozing town and out into the open.

Arthur had never experienced anything like it. The engine was purring between his thighs, a low, rumbling vibration that sent delicious sparks through his entire body; wind was gushing in his ears, tugging at his hair, as he stared into the darkness, sprinkled with pools of lights here and there, passing at too high a speed to take shape, pulsing with a golden glow, smeared against his eyelashes. Arthur draped himself over the solid form of the man in front of him, and laughed because he couldn’t help it. It was happiness distilled.

He wasn’t taking note of where Merlin was taking him, only dimly aware that they’d left the motorway at some point in favour of darker, narrower roads, where they were the only spark of light cutting through the night air. Arthur didn’t care. He closed his eyes for a moment, resting his forehead against Merlin’s shoulder, breathing in deeply. There was a smell of leather, not sharp-new but worn and loved, with a vaguely metallic note of machine oil and the same ozone-fresh scent of hidden power. But there was also something else – something earthier, more basic. Something that came with the unexpected softness of the unruly dark hair, with the rock-solid firmness of thigh muscles, with the uncompromising, straight line of the back, and the vulnerable curve of the neck.

Arthur drew in a deeper breath, as if trying to get drunk on it all, his arms tightening around Merlin’s waist instinctively.

When they started to slow down, it felt like coming out of a delicious dream. Arthur blinked, straightening up as he noticed his surroundings for the first time. He didn’t recognise anything, though they couldn’t have gone that far. Merlin had turned away from the narrow country road into what seemed to be no more than a path that wasn’t even wide enough for a car.

They stopped at what seemed to be the slope of a hill overlooking the horizon-to-horizon spread of the valley, with its conglomerates of shimmering lights, road lines, and dark spaces. Arthur didn’t know such a place existed near the small, sleepy town of Camelot, and he looked around in curious confusion.

Merlin had taken them through the forest – hell only knew how he was able to see through the darkness – and into a clearing, protected from the siege of the trees by huge stone monoliths that seemed to have been part of some rather magnificent construction probably as long as hundreds of years ago. Merlin killed the engine and Arthur disentangled himself dazedly, sliding off the bike and looking around.

“What is this place?” he asked in wonder, pressing his hand against the unnaturally smooth surface of the rock.

“It’s an old dolmen,” Merlin said, dismounting as well. It was an unusually warm night, and he shrugged off his jacket, making Arthur’s mind go momentarily blank because _forearms, fuck_.

Arthur blinked, shaking himself forcefully. “A dolmen?” He glanced around again. “I didn’t know there was something like that near Camelot.”

“There’re quite a few, actually.”

“It looks like—”

“Yes?” Merlin was smiling.

“Well, it’s just. It reminds me of Stonehenge.”

“You’re thinking in the right direction.” Merlin nodded, sounding pleased. Arthur watched as he spread his jacket on a huge stone plate that lay reclined against another, almost parallel to the ground but not quite. “This place is much older, though.”

He sat down, facing the valley below, stretching his whole body languidly, like a cat coming out of a nap. There was no source of light nearby, but the pasty orb of the moon hung huge and almost unnaturally bright over their heads. Something about this place, something in the way Merlin poured himself onto the flat surface of the stone in a liquid black motion, made Arthur look up to make sure the moon _was_ waning.

Not that Arthur believed in lycanthropy or anything, but...

Merlin was smirking at him as though he could read Arthur’s mind, and Arthur flushed, licked by the senses of want and danger.

He climbed up to sit next to Merlin on the stone plate, close enough to feel the heat emanating from his body but not close enough to touch unless he meant to.

“So, what were they for?” Arthur asked. He felt like he was stalling, though he didn’t know what, and he was genuinely curious. “They say that Stonehenge was some kind of Druidic calendar?”

“A calendar?” Merlin turned to look at him.

“Well—”

“Arthur, Stonehenge was a calendar in the same sense as your iPhone is a calendar.”

“Um... Well, it does have one.”

“Exactly.”

“So what—”

“Too many things to count, really. It was one of the focal points of the Old Religion – a place where the fabric of the veil between the worlds is thinner, and magic is raw and wild – barbaric, if you please. Like a volcano – destructive, unless harnessed properly. The priestesses of the Old Religion had the Isle of the Blessed; the warrior priests, Catha, built a temple in Suffra – it’s now under water – and the Druids had Stonehenge. Rituals, magic, healing, teaching, protecting their kin – you name it. I’m sure the ability to tell the time was in there somewhere, too.”

Arthur listened to him raptly, half-enchanted. “How do you know all this? The history books—”

“Yeah.” Merlin snorted humourlessly. “You should never forget who writes those, Arthur. I’m pretty sure they’re the same people who wrote _Malleus Maleficarum_.”

“So how do you—”

Merlin threw his head back, baring his throat to the moonlight as though soaking in it. The curve of his lips and the sharp contours of his cheekbones made him look impish. “Maybe I’m just making things up.”

“Why?”

The smirk deepened. “Why, to impress you, of course. You seem to be intrigued by magic, and I’m—” He sighed and finished in a different tone. “I’m really a bastard who can’t help himself.”

Arthur blushed, averting his eyes. It seemed so strange, being here. Less than an hour ago, he was in the midst of a life he knew so well, riding the edge of victory, surrounded by cheering mates and happy people. Back there was light, and school, and friendly, familiar faces. They seemed to exist in a different world, a different time and space from this one, wrapped in moonlight – mysterious, ancient, alluring and vaguely dangerous.

A world into which Merlin seemed to blend in too seamlessly for it to be an act.

A cool draft blew from the top of the hill, making Arthur shiver for a moment. Merlin’s forearms erupted in goosebumps, even if he didn’t seem to notice, sprawled on the stone, liquid, relaxed – moonbathing.

“And the dolmens?” Arthur asked. “You said they’re older. Weren’t they supposed to be tombs?”

“You really think that people who could barely light a fire would go to such lengths just to bury their dead?”

Arthur shrugged. “They did find bodies inside.”

“Oh yes.” Merlin sat up, frowning. “I imagine they did.”

“What do you—”

“Arthur,” Merlin interrupted him quietly, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “I know a lot about these things, I do. It’s fascinating stuff, really. I could be telling you about it all night, if that’s what you want. But I was rather hoping we could – do something else.”

Arthur’s heart flipped inside his chest and his mouth went dry. “Oh.”

Merlin reached out and took him by the chin, turning him gently toward himself. “Something more like this,” he whispered, and pressed his lips softly to Arthur’s mouth.

For a split second, Arthur’s whole system froze in shock – and then, he pressed back.

Arthur wasn’t prepared for how gentle the kiss was. From the way Merlin had acted at school, he had half-expected it to be all teeth and mindless aggression. It wasn’t. Merlin cradled his jaw carefully, sliding his lips over Arthur’s slowly, exploring, learning by touch, nipping softly at the bottom lip, then at the top, and then the bottom again as though comparing the texture, chasing the taste to the corner of Arthur’s mouth, then moving to compare it with the other.

It was luscious, slow-burning torture, all soft pressure and warm breath, simple but not innocent at all. Arthur let out a soft whimper at the first hint of tongue tracing the seam of his lips, and grabbed Merlin’s shoulders. He opened his mouth readily, trying to press forward, to get more.

Merlin pulled back with a breathy laugh. “Hasty.” He angled his head and licked into Arthur’s mouth slowly with wide, lingering swipes of his tongue, as though Arthur was a delicious drink he intended to savour, fingers carding through Arthur’s hair, curling around the nape of his neck, long and powerful, holding him in place.

The kiss turned hot and liquid, heady with suppressed urgency, only just kept at bay. Arthur’s head was spinning, his whole body tingling in sync with the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat. Merlin was changing the angles now as though determined to test out every one, still gentle but now impatient, slipping at times, dragging his tongue against the roof of Arthur’s mouth until Arthur shivered and moaned, startled with how good it felt.

Merlin broke away with a moan of his own, sucking Arthur’s lower lip one more time as if he couldn’t help himself, flicking his tongue over it, and Arthur’s toes curled.

They stared at each other, panting, sharing a breath, the small space between them heavy and charged, hovering on the brink of something explosive. Arthur couldn’t look away from Merlin’s lips, couldn’t let go of him, couldn’t _breathe_ for how much he wanted, his cock _aching_ , hard and pulsing with it.

Merlin swallowed, shifting a little further away with obvious difficulty, his eyes black in the moonlight, tiny specs of gold making them sizzle. He pressed his thumb to the swollen, fleshy part of Arthur’s lower lip, and Arthur let out a strangled, hoarse sound, not quite a protest, and more of an instinctive, guttural complain of a body tested to its limits.

Merlin jutted his chin forward as if for another kiss, but his lips only pressed against air with a small, pained noise.

“Do you trust me?” he whispered, and Arthur felt his eyes try to roll back in his head at the sound of his voice, deep and saturated with lust and menace.

 _Yes_. He had to swallow and try again. “Yes.”

Merlin’s lips hovered over his mouth, not quite touching. “You shouldn’t.” A breathy sigh melting on his parted lips like the last gust of reason. “Oh, Arthur, you really, really shouldn’t.”

Arthur trembled, unable to hold back a moan as Merlin kissed him again, now fierce and desperate, as if he was only just keeping himself in check, and Arthur was thrilled and scared and _wanting_ more than ever. Merlin pushed him back, cradling his nape so that he wouldn’t hit his head against the hard stone. He broke the kiss and instead sucked lingering, hot kisses along Arthur’s jawline, nipping softly and flicking his tongue, sucking on the sensitive spot under Arthur’s chin that Arthur had no idea about but which made him whimper.

Merlin grazed his Adam’s apple with his teeth while his long, clever fingers were busy undoing the buttons of Arthur’s shirt one by one, teasing the newly exposed skin of his chest with quick, almost accidental touches.

Arthur lay down obediently, dizzy and drowning, every touch a hot brand, the rock beneath him a cool, reassuring weight that seemed to be pushing him up the more he tried to melt into it, up and into the drugging heat of Merlin’s lips and hands.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking gorgeous,” Merlin moaned, nipping at his ear, nuzzling down Arthur’s neck and wailing softly, as though the scent was so good it was hurting him. “You’re so...”

He trailed off as Arthur reached for him awkwardly, urging him on, and Merlin moved, following the call eagerly. He reached down and pulled Arthur’s legs apart, sliding one of his own between them, the sharp curve of his hipbone pressing down hard against Arthur’s straining erection. Arthur gasped as Merlin grinded down, his own cock outlined obscenely through the soft fabric of his trousers, pressed against Arthur’s hip and belly. Arthur bent his knee instinctively to push him up, and Merlin moaned, his thighs gripping Arthur’s leg. Arthur’s hands slipped under the hem of his t-shirt, roaming aimlessly over the neverending expanse of smooth fair skin, following the curve of Merlin’s spine.

“God, _yes_ , Merlin, _please_ —”

Merlin kissed him again, open-mouthed and filthy, aligning their upper bodies and riding Arthur’s leg in fast, rhythmic motions, the press of his pelvis against Arthur’s cock excruciatingly good. Arthur wailed dully into the kiss, losing himself in the overwhelming tug of _too much—please more_ of it, digging his nails into Merlin’s back, unconsciously vicious.

Merlin growled and sealed Arthur’s lips with his own completely, fucking Arthur’s mouth with his tongue in sharp, brutal jabs, not relenting, not showing the slightest bit of mercy as Arthur whined and arched and bucked beneath him, trapped and helpless against the onslaught, his jaw slack, his limbs too heavy, his whole body being split apart, torn to pieces by the overpowering riptide of pure lust.

Fingers closed around his nipple, blunt nail scraping against the pebbled peak, and Arthur came with a jagged cry, his body seizing in a broken arch, limbs locking cold for endless seconds, as his cock jolted against the unforgiving weight, filling his underwear with come, and everything faded into a deafening rush of white noise for a few long moments.

Merlin muttered something into his neck, and then he, too, stilled, his thighs clamping down on Arthur’s leg hard enough to penetrate through euphoric fog of his climax.

Reality sipped back slowly with ragged breaths and an awkward tangle of limbs. After a moment, Merlin propped himself up on his elbows, nuzzled Arthur’s throat as if on instinct, and moved to pull away. Arthur tensed his arms before he knew he was doing it, holding Merlin in place with a muffled noise. Merlin stilled, and Arthur, abruptly becoming aware of his actions, blushed and slackened his hold, turning his head away.

Merlin slotted back down onto him, dragging his lips along Arthur’s jawline, and nudging him with his nose until Arthur grudgingly turned back. Merlin kissed him, gentle and soothing, and Arthur couldn’t fight the urge to wrap his arms around him once more, rumbling with pleasure as he felt Merlin melt into the kiss. They were soon, both of them, grinning between teasing, affectionate pecks and nips, Arthur’s hands comfortable and at home at the small of Merlin’s back, Merlin’s palm resting against Arthur’s heart.

“We should probably head back soon,” Merlin murmured. “I think it’s about to rain.”

Arthur knew he was right, but he didn’t want to move. Lying there, sprawled on the cold stone half-naked with Merlin half on top of him and still fully dressed, felt strangely comfortable, almost eerily perfect.

But Merlin pulled back eventually, and Arthur shivered and suppressed a sigh.

The ride back was quiet. Arthur almost drifted, plastered against Merlin’s back, clinging to the pocket of warmth between their bodies. By the time Merlin pulled up in front of the Pendragon manor, Arthur felt chilled.

“I, um. I’d like to call you,” Arthur said, wondering when this had become awkward.

Merlin gave him a tired smile and a shake of the head. “I don’t have a mobile.”

“Oh.”

Another pause. It started to drizzle, and Arthur fought against the instinct to hug himself.

“Well.” Merlin cleared his throat. “I’ll see you at school.”

It was only after the taillights of his motorcycle had dissolved in the distance that Arthur muttered a quiet, “Yeah,” and wandered slowly toward the dark house.

***

“Come on,” Merlin says, pushing away from Arthur still pinned to the stone plate and pulling him up by the hand. “I want to try something else.”

Arthur follows him, a little dazed. He’s only just come, but it feels as if he hasn’t come at all, the way his cock is hard and heavy, a pulling weight between his legs that’s making him walk funny. Merlin glances over his shoulder, smirking, and Arthur has to press his hand against his groin for a moment, to make it just a little bit better. Merlin laughs and ushers him on.

It’s this place, Arthur thinks, standing in the middle of the clearing, surrounded by old trees and ancient stones. It’s this fucking place.

“Old magic,” Merlin mutters as if in answer to his thoughts. “I’m sorry, Arthur. You shouldn’t have come here with me. There’s nothing I can do now.”

Arthur wants to turn around and ask him what the fuck is going on and why he’s feeling so strange, but all he can really do is follow the guiding touches of Merlin’s hands on the bare, feverish skin of his shoulders and back. When did he lose the shirt? No matter.

Arthur’s head is swimming, his vision blurry. Suddenly he feels a scratchy rub of leather against his stomach, a familiar smell attacking his nostrils, and he has the time to think, ‘ _Oh, right. The bike_ ,’ before he’s bent over it. The padded seat digs into his stomach as Merlin encourages him to stretch his arms in front of him, and Arthur does, because it hurts to disobey.

Merlin kisses his spine, wet and scalding. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, Arthur.”

Arthur waits in mounting confusion, so many questions whirling on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t ask a single one. Instead he tries to hump awkwardly against the bike, because his cock feels ready to burst, and the contact makes him whimper.

“Fuck,” Merlin gasps somewhere over him. “Oh, my fucking... _fuck_ , Arthur.”

Hands slide under his hips, unbuckling his belt, and then his jeans and pants are tugged down to pool around his ankles.

Blood rushes to Arthur’s face, humiliation so powerful it cuts through the haze of arousal. It strikes him suddenly what a picture he must make – bent over a motorbike naked, presenting his arse to anyone walking by, gagging for a cock like a whore. He tries to move, but he can’t, and he isn’t even sure he wants to.

A new wave of shame hits him as strong hands pry his cheeks apart, his hole clenching involuntarily, his cock throbbing. Someone breathes against his crack and then there are thumbs pressing at his entrance, pulling it open slowly but surely, and Arthur’s stomach hollows out, because it burns, yes, but also...

Something blunt and slippery is pressed against him, and he knows, he knows what’s about to happen. It terrifies him, but he still can’t move away, even as his mind is screaming that he’s not bound, not tied, he has a strong body and can overpower pretty much anyone. He should make a fight for it, should shove back whoever it is, pull up his trousers and run. He should – he can –

He doesn’t.

His thighs begin to tremble, suspended awkwardly, fingers digging into his arse are still stretching him to the point where it hurts, and the blunt pressure against his hole is growing slowly, pulsing hot and so fucking _huge_ , and the suspense alone is making his balls draw up tight and his cock weep with it, but it’s still not enough.

Then, just as blind terror and lust short-circuit his brain, he’s fucked open, and the world explodes behind his eyelids.

***

Arthur woke up abruptly, drenched in sweat, a harsh, aborted cry on his lips, his throat raw as though he’d been shouting for hours, heart beating madly in his chest, legs spread wide on the bed, cock twitching as it shot its last spurts of come into the mattress.

“Bloody hell.”

Arthur rolled onto his back, threw an arm over his eyes, and groaned.

A wet dream – an honest to God _wet dream. Fuck._ Oh, for the love of. He barely had those when he was thirteen – well, okay, he had, but it’d happened maybe twice and had never been as intense or vivid.

He thought back on what he dreamed about and groaned again in shame. A _rape fantasy_? Oh God. Why wasn’t _this_ one of those dreams that he couldn’t remember after? Why was every details still unfading and starkly clear before his eyes?

To imagine that _Merlin_ would – but then it wasn’t even Merlin for the last part of it, was it? Merlin faded somewhere in the middle into a nameless, otherworldly creature with a giant cock (Jesus Christ, could he be any more cliché?), a bloody priest of the bloody Old Religion or something. _Oh God_.

Arthur buried his face in his hands and rolled out of bed, groaning loud enough to wake the neighbours if he had any.

He was so utterly fucked. He felt like it, too.

The worst part was that it was four in the fucking morning, so after a long, thorough shower (his cock tried to call for attention, but Arthur was still too shaken and ashamed to touch it), Arthur went down to the mini gym they kept in the basement. He ran on the treadmill until his legs threatened to buckle under him and then lifted weights until his arms were screaming with it. He took another shower and fell into bed, burying his head under a pillow as a feeble defence against the persistent morning sun.

Morgana lifted an eyebrow when she saw him dragging arse into the kitchen past eleven, bleary-eyed and groggy as though he’d spent the night loading bricks.

“Late night?”

“Ungh.” Arthur snatched a carton of orange juice from the fridge and drained it, spilling some of it down his front.

“Charming,” Morgana commented. “How old are you again?”

“Nngh.”

“You know, I always knew that the art of conversation was beyond you, but I never doubted you could actually talk. Learn something new every day, huh?”

Arthur put the juice down and glared at her. “A little compassion would kill you?”

She arched her eyebrow again. “Hungover?”

Arthur shook his head, wincing. “I didn’t drink anything last night.”

Morgana blinked. “Are you ill, then? You don’t look it. I mean, you do look like shit, but—”

“I’m not ill,” he sighed and climbed onto a stool, tugging the plate with the remnants of Morgana’s toast toward him.

She watched him bemusedly. “Well, much as I’d love to stay here and entertain your delusions of being enigmatic—”

“Oi! I’m plenty enigmatic!”

“Sure you are.” Morgana flashed him a smile. “Like a teaspoon.”

Arthur grumbled, but, as his teeth were stuck together by the jam and crust, he didn’t say anything.

“Anyway, as I was saying, I’d love to stay, but I can’t. I’ve got a study session.”

Arthur looked at her. Morgana rolled her eyes. “It’s not a code word for magic, Arthur, for God’s sake. I got a B- last week in Biology. Gwen’s going to help me if I help her sell her puppies first.”

Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed. “Does this mean you and Gwen are friends again?”

Morgana huffed. “Don’t be silly. Nobody can be friends with her as long as she exists in a permanent liplock with that snotty French beau of hers.”

Arthur thought about Merlin, but held his tongue.

“Anyway, she figures she has a better chance of getting rid of the little buggers if she has help. Stick and carrot, that kind of thing.”

“I take it she’s the carrot?”

Morgana wriggled two fingers at him.

“Classy.”

“You bet. You have cricket practice later, yeah?”

“Mhm. Hey, listen, you want to maybe grab dinner tonight somewhere in town? Maybe catch a film?”

Morgana stared at him suspiciously. “You want to spend time with me? Why?”

Arthur shrugged. “We haven’t done it in a while. I miss you.”

Not that it wasn’t the truth, but it wasn’t the whole truth – he was a bit desperate not to spend the evening alone. Sure, he could have made plans with some of his mates, but things would still be a bit touchy with Gwaine (plus he’d ask about last night), and Arthur had a feeling that Leon wasn’t too pleased with him at the moment, although Arthur preferred not to think about why.

He would have loved to spend the night with Merlin, but that was out of the question. Arthur had no idea where he lived, and Merlin was just weird enough for Arthur to believe that his line about not having a mobile wasn’t actually a line. Seeing him wasn’t going to happen, and, given Arthur’s precarious state of mind, perhaps it was for the best.

Morgana’s face softened. “Aw, Arthur. You’re so precious sometimes; I want to put you in a box and dote on you.”

“Um. Thanks?”

“Then of course you’re being an arse again and I want to burn that box and scatter the ashes.”

“I love you, too. Very, very, very deep inside.”

She giggled. “Fine. _Bel and the Dragon_ , eight-ish?”

“Ish.”

“Cool. Then we can catch the last show at the _Cutting Room_.”

Arthur stopped chewing. “Must we? You know I don’t get your pretentious artsy stuff, and it’s never even in English.”

“Shut it. Yes, we must. There’s a new Spanish film I’ve been meaning to see, but no one would go with me—”

“I wonder why.”

“— _Memoria de mis putas tristes_. It’s about prostitutes and a young virgin, so you should be fine.”

“I resent that logic.”

“There’ll be subtitles.”

“Morgana—”

“Fine – you sit through this with me, we’ll come back and I’ll sit through _Transformers_ 846 or whatever unrealistic misogynistic crap Gwaine dumped on you the last time.”

“So _Transformers_ is misogynistic and a film about prostitutes isn’t?”

“Take it or leave it.”

Arthur sighed. “Fine. See you tonight.”

She beamed and, in a rare surge of sisterly affection, kissed his hair. “If you need me, I’ll be at the roundabout, making an idiot of myself.”

“Have fun.”

“Shut up.”

It was a thing they always did. No matter how different their preferences, interests, or friends were sometimes, no matter if they were currently fighting or not talking to each other – they always told the other exactly where they were going and with whom. It was their fail-safe device against Uther’s untimely arrivals, or an actual lifeline when either of them got in trouble.

Arthur remembered Morgana rushing to a police station, flashing her cleavage at the constable long enough to hypnotise him then crawl into his lap, and then be able to blackmail him into releasing Arthur and forgetting he’d ever been there or else face charges of sexual abuse of a minor.

He also remembered sitting with a hysterical, trembling Morgana at a hospital in the middle of the night, holding her and muttering nonsense into her hair. She’d been convinced she was pregnant, despite every test showing otherwise, and wouldn’t calm down before she saw a doctor.

Most of the time, it gave them cannon fodder for endless bickering, but it worked for them.

He was still beat when he dragged himself to the cricket pitch. Arthur hadn’t played cricket himself since he was twelve and made the decision to concentrate on football. It was with no small amount of trepidation that he stepped up, showing the boys the correct way to bowl, but his muscle memory must have been intact, and they gazed at him with the usual measure of admiration that they hadn’t yet learned to hide.

Arthur sighed, stretching as they each had a go. He would have loved to think that his back was sore because of the delicious frotting session he chose to have while sprawled on a stone plate, but he was realist enough to know that it was actually due to his acrobatics on the football field the night before. He shook his head at himself and went to sit on the bench in the shadow, next to Gwen’s little brother Elyan.

“Hey, Mister P,” Elyan said as Arthur sat down next to him.

“How’s your ankle?” Arthur asked, glancing at the bandage wrapped somewhat haphazardly around the boy’s leg.

“Better,” Elyan said glumly, looking at his teammates. “The doctor said I shouldn’t be training for another week.”

“Well, you must do as he says.”

“I guess.” There was a pause as they both watched Steve Hopkins do a cartwheel after a lucky bowl. “Mister P? Do you think I can ever be as good as Steve?”

Arthur pursed his lips. “Well, with sufficient training—” He trailed off under Elyan’s reproachful stare. “Look, Elyan. Why _do_ you want to play cricket? You don’t seem to like it very much.”

The boy sulked. “All my friends are doing sports. I don’t want to grow up a waif.”

He was, Arthur supposed, somewhat smaller than an average twelve-year-old. “It doesn’t have to be cricket. Team sports could be...” This was a tricky part, because Arthur personally loved team sports more than anything. Glancing at Elyan’s defeated expression, though, he knew he’d have to come up with something. “Have you thought of maybe joining the swimming team? You like to swim, don’t you? I’m sure Lance could give you a few lessons, since he’s the swim team captain and all.”

“That’s what Lance said.” Elyan scowled.

“Well, he has a point.”

“I don’t like him. I liked you better, Mister P. Are you sure you’re gay?”

Arthur suppressed a smile. “Quite sure, I’m afraid. Why don’t you like Lance?”

“He makes me do homework. You never made me do homework. And you never ratted me out to Gwen when I didn’t.”

Arthur had a hard time biting back a snort. Saint Lance. Of course.

“And I got to call you Arthur.”

“You can still call me Arthur when the team’s not around.”

“I know. I don’t mind, though. It’s just – it’s not fair, you know?”

Arthur nodded sagely, even though he didn’t really know what Elyan was talking about. He could have told him that the reason Arthur never interfered with Gwen’s family was because he wasn’t as invested in their relationship as Lance was. He hadn’t known that at the time, but in retrospect, it was rather obvious. Somehow, Arthur didn’t think Elyan would benefit from knowing that.

It struck him suddenly how closely their lives were interconnected. Half of them would go to the same universities, but even after that, whatever they ended up doing, they would always remain connected in ways that couldn’t be rivalled by other people who’d come along the way. No matter what the future brought, Arthur would always be the guy who taught Gwen’s little brother cricket, Gwen would always be Morgana’s first kiss, Leon would always remain Morgana’s secret crush _and_ the guy who trashed her first car while trying to give Arthur a driving lesson, and Gwaine would be the one who covered for them both and let Morgana kick his arse at fencing.

Whatever they’d do, and wherever they’d go, they would always remain a tightly bound bunch, leaving very little room for anyone who might wish to join them. The thought left Arthur sad and a little bit unnerved – not because he didn’t like them, but because he realised suddenly that he _wanted_ there to be room. At least for one other person.

He thought of Lance then, and for the first time, it was some kind of reassuring.

After the practice was over, Arthur haunted the library for a couple of hours, but his mind was clearly elsewhere and he didn’t get any work done. He headed for the restaurant at seven, knowing he’d be tremendously early but thinking that he might at least have a strong cup of tea while he waited anyway.

He drove to _Bel and the Dragon_ and cursed, having forgotten that their car park was undergoing an overhaul. He circled around the block, looking for a spot, until he finally found one across from Gawant’s garage.

Arthur grinned, thinking of Elena Gawant, a cheerful, slightly tomboyish girl who loved cars almost as much as she loved racehorses, and whose father was so completely wrapped around her little finger that he’d bought a fully functioning town garage for her so that she could tinker to her heart’s desire. Ellie was the one who reassembled Arthur’s BMW’s engine until it agreed to produce another 20 in horsepower over the specified 400. She was also the one who tried to teach him to smoke, not that either of them liked to reminisce about it.

Ellie was away at uni now, and Arthur stared at the open doors of the garage wistfully for a moment, wondering how she was doing. Probably drinking the older part of Cambridge under the table, knowing her. 

Arthur grinned and turned to go when something caught his attention. Just inside the garage doors, he could see an intimidating, snotty frown of a Rolls Royce Ghost, its hood open, threatening to swallow the man poking at its insides. It was at that moment that Arthur realised with no small measure of embarrassment that he had stared at a particular part of that particular man’s anatomy far too often for far too long if he was able to recognise it like this on the spot, even before the man straightened up and turned, reaching for an instrument.

It was Merlin. Merlin, in a black tank and muddy green jumpsuit that he wore like a pair of trousers, sleeves tied around his hips. There was a stripe of black across his cheek, smudged dirt or oil, his hair in its usual disarray. Arthur couldn’t tear his eyes away from his arms and shoulders – not hidden by the clothes, they were much more muscular than he’d imagined. He wasn’t buff like Gwaine or Percival, but he was—

Bent over the engine, one knee up as he reached for something, long fingers handling the tools deftly, a look of intense concentration on his face, his eyes focused, teeth digging into the pink fullness of his bottom lip when he wasn’t whispering something to the engine – he looked completely and utterly delicious.

Arthur swallowed, watching, reverted to the spot. So this was Merlin’s job people kept whispering about. He was a mechanic.

Arthur looked further in to see Jarvis, Dmitry, Tim and a few other guys from the garage regular staff work on some other cars, bantering and joking in their usual way, not so much excluding Merlin as simply ignoring him. Or perhaps he was the one ignoring them – Arthur narrowed his eyes and saw earbuds stuck in Merlin’s ears, foot tapping off a rhythm subconsciously.

Nobody, not even Jarvis, who was something of a control freak, was looking over his shoulder as he poked and prodded at a car that probably cost more than their entire business, which led to only one realistic conclusion.

Merlin was bloody _damn_ good at what he was doing.

Suddenly, Arthur felt uncomfortable watching Merlin work. It wasn’t that he didn’t look fetching – on the contrary, Arthur could easily see him on a page of some kind of calendar like _Firefighters Millenium Golden Edition_ that Arthur still had somewhere, somewhat stickier than it had been on the day he’d bought it. No, the imagery was fine – more than fine, really.

It was the very idea.

Arthur grew up blessedly unaware of any kind of class issues. He was beginning to realise that it wasn’t so much because the issues no longer existed in this day and age, as he’d naively used to believe, but because they were harder to spot when you were at the top of the class pyramid. The point was, no one Arthur knew had ever done any kind of manual labour. Well, except Elena, but everyone knew it was just a hobby, like embroidery or assembling puzzlers.

Arthur came from the world of upper class, aristocracy and white collars. He’d never had his hands _dirty_ – like Merlin’s were, currently – in his entire life.

It made him feel faintly nauseous and uncomfortable, a vague sense of shame clawing at his insides, even though it wasn’t his fault. From the moment Merlin had first arrived to the school, Arthur had known he was different. He just wasn’t expecting it to be this kind of difference, even though he should have.

He just couldn’t reconcile the ‘I read more than your entire class put together’ Merlin and ‘hetaerae in Pompeii’ Merlin and ‘Henry Morgan owed his fortune to a captive sorceress’ Merlin with the ‘Oi, you there, fix my carburettor, check the oil, and be quick about it, there’s a good lad’ – ‘Yes, sir, right away’ guy in coveralls with grease-covered hands.

It struck Arthur suddenly how sheltered a life he was living. And Merlin – what would someone like Merlin ever want with _him_ , a naive, spoiled, rich brat? God, no wonder Merlin kept his distance from all of them. What must he be thinking...

Arthur hovered a moment longer, hesitating, torn between the instinctive urge to go to Merlin and the wish to spare them both the embarrassment. Not that Merlin had anything to be embarrassed about, of course. Arthur almost decided, taking a step to cross the road, when his mobile buzzed in his pocket.

_I’m at our usual table. Where the hell r u?_

Arthur sighed. Morgana believed religiously that, no matter how late or early she arrived somewhere, people should always be waiting for her, not the other way around. Arthur shot once last look at Merlin’s lithe, slender form, sighed wistfully yet again, and stalked toward the restaurant.

The dinner went surprisingly well, with Morgana too busy chattering away about Gwen to notice Arthur’s subdued mood. By the time they reached the cinema, the toll of two physically demanding days and an almost sleepless night was starting to catch up with him. The moment the lights were out, his eyes began to droop, and even Morgana’s sharp elbows were barely enough to keep him somewhat conscious.

On the plus side, Morgana was so happy that she had finally seen the film that, when they got home, she produced a bottle of Absolut vodka from her secret stash and chopped a lemon.

Arthur made a face. “But I want pickles.”

Morgana rolled her eyes. “I’m not going out again, and no one is going to hand deliver your precious pickled eggs in the middle of the night.”

“But I want—”

“It’s lemons or nothing.”

“Fine.”

They spent two hours getting steadily drunk and thoroughly mocking the _Revenge of the Banshees 3_ before falling into bed.

Sunday was spent nursing a monster hangover and trying to catch up on some homework and absolutely not wanking over a vintage _Handymen_ calendar and fighting the urge to go have his perfectly functioning car fixed. Because that would be stupid and redundant. Obviously.

***

Arthur was getting supremely tired of staring at the back of Merlin’s neck.

Not that it wasn’t a nice neck or that the single strand of dark hair venturing bravely down it wasn’t doing funny things to Arthur’s insides, but staring at it without being able to do anything was incredibly frustrating. Merlin glanced over his shoulder, caught his eye, and smiled beatifically before turning back to the teacher.

Arthur gritted his teeth. It was _unbearable_.

He didn’t know what he’d expected. It wasn’t like he wanted Merlin to stride into the great hall and announce to the whole school that they were fucking. (They weren’t, technically, but Arthur was too annoyed for details.) Arthur was a reasonable person and he neither expected nor wanted that. But he expected _something_ , and that _something_ certainly wasn’t them going back to the silent smiles routine of the week before.

Where had he gone wrong? Should he have invited Merlin to his house? Had Merlin noticed him lurking outside the garage on Saturday? Was he angry with Arthur? Why the hell did he keep smiling like a lunatic, then?

It was all exactly as before – smiles for Arthur, and actual _conversations_ for Gwen and Lance and Gwaine and even Percy, for crying out loud. Today at lunch, Arthur was forced to watch Vivian, of all people, trying to hit on Merlin, and Merlin entertaining her delusions of being irresistible by trying to let her down as gently as he could. Wasted effort, since Vivian understood the delicate art of being subtle about as well as Gwaine did, which was to say not at all – and Arthur could have told Merlin that, except, oh yes, Merlin wasn’t paying him any attention.

Which was why Arthur was fuming quietly in the back of the Modern Languages classroom, a subject that he wasn’t even taking, wasting his free period to stare on the back of Merlin’s neck and listen to him show off his excessive knowledge of Spanish curse words, making Miss Rosenblum blush. The only other person blushing was Leon. Other students were grinning and asking each other for exact translations, and Morgana was gleefully taking notes.

Some days, Arthur hated his life.

He sulked at the back for the rest of the class, and then waited for everyone to clear out, not wanting to call additional attention to himself. He was just about to step out when a hand shot out from the teacher’s study, grabbed him by the wrist, and pulled him in, shutting the door behind him.

“Are you stalking me?” Merlin asked, grinning.

“The hell are you doing?” Arthur panicked. “Miss Rosenblum—”

“Won’t be back for at least a half hour, so calm down. Now, _are_ you stalking me?”

Arthur jerked his chin sullenly. He wanted to say, ‘Are you ignoring me?’ but that would have been too childish. “You’re the one who locked me up here,” he grumbled.

Merlin’s grin was infuriating... and unfortunately making Arthur’s lips twitch against his will.

“So I have,” Merlin said, pushing him against the door and kissing him.

Arthur dropped his backpack and grabbed Merlin’s arms, jerking him closer. The kiss was immediately hard and wet, the delicious, hot slide of Merlin’s tongue against his own making Arthur go from an annoyed semi to rock hard in an instant. He groaned, jolting at the abruptness of it, and pulled Merlin’s hair as if to punish him for it. Merlin gasped, his whole body shuddering, because of _course_ the fucker would love that. He tugged impatiently on Arthur’s shirt, pulling it out of his trousers and slipping his hands underneath. It was Arthur’s turn to shiver as Merlin’s teasing, curious fingers fluttered across his abdomen, and Arthur grabbed him by the back of the neck, taking control of the kiss, pushing his tongue into Merlin’s mouth, frustrated, confused, and painfully aroused.

Merlin pulled back with a soft moan. “Hang on. _Mmph_. Arth— _Arthur_ , just let me—”

He undid Arthur’s belt and zipper, pushing his trousers down, licked his palm, and shoved his hand into Arthur’s pants. His fingers wrapped around Arthur’s cock, and Arthur’s head fell back, slamming hard into the door behind him.

“ _Fuck_ , yes,” he hissed, rolling his head helplessly, sweat breaking all over him. There wasn’t a man alive who’d turn this down, Arthur was sure of it, whimpering at the way Merlin was jerking him off, his grip tighter than Arthur would have dared, and _so bloody good, oh God_ , why hadn’t he done it like this before?

Merlin was kissing him, his neck, his jaw, murmuring something unintelligible but both tender and filthy into Arthur’s ear, scraping his teeth against Arthur’s chin, until he found that spot again, just under, and—

Arthur came, biting down on his own fist hard to muffle the sound. Gulping for breath, his chest heaving, he watched as Merlin undid his own jeans hastily, pulling his cock out, flushed, beautiful, making Arthur’s mouth water. He stared at Arthur, eyes nearly black and cloudy, as if Arthur, debauched and sweaty, was the most erotic image ever to exist. Arthur moaned helplessly, because it was – this was – Merlin was wanking to _him_ , while he was standing _right there_ , and it was—

Merlin came with a nearly soundless ‘ _Ah_ ,’ catching himself on Arthur’s shoulder, hiding his face against his chest, mouthing at his shirt, as he trembled through it. Arthur wrapped an arm around him, hand rubbing the nape of his neck soothingly. He kissed Merlin’s temple, and nuzzled his hair, wondering what else he’d get away with and what was _wrong_ with him that he wanted these little things in the first place.

Merlin pulled back quickly enough, his face flushed, his grin a little self-conscious, but swiftly drifting to cheeky. He grabbed some tissues from the dispenser on the teacher’s desk and shoved them at Arthur. They cleaned up and righted their clothes in silence. Merlin moved to open the door, and Arthur stepped aside, biting his lip but determined not to say anything. He was being clingy enough already.

Unexpectedly, Merlin leaned into his space, nipped softly at his earlobe, and murmured, “I like it when you stalk me.”

He slipped out of the tiny room just as quickly, leaving Arthur flustered and more confused than ever.

***

Several days later, Arthur realised that this was going to be a pattern. They’d ignore each other in class, not even a suggestive glance or a sly wink between them, only for Arthur to break away from his mates to go to the loo or to hunt down a ‘forgotten’ book. Merlin would wait for him in an empty classroom, or lurk in dark alcoves, or even sneak into the gym’s changing room.

They didn’t talk, even though Arthur always had half a mind to, but then Merlin would be there, looking at him with that infuriating, _challenging_ smirk, and Arthur would revert into a schoolyard bully and push him against the nearest flat surface hard, crowd and shove him, and then grab him by the hair, rough, and kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him, until Merlin fucking _whimpered_ into it.

Arthur had never been much on kissing, always thinking of it as a necessary evil, a simple courtesy even before they got down to business. Merlin, he could kiss for _hours_ , until his lips were raw and his jaw ached, not that it ever came to that, because they always had little time and Merlin was _pushy_. Trying to be gentle with him was like trying to talk a fire out of burning, and the only times they went slow were when _Merlin_ wanted to go slow.

Not that Arthur had reasons to complain, really. They were the hottest make out sessions he’d ever had, Merlin’s lips, his hot, wet mouth a sweet fucking addiction, and Arthur wanted to do _things_ to it, yes, but there was also something about just kissing Merlin that made him weak in the knees and ache all over.

Merlin would never let him luxuriate in it, though, rubbing Arthur through his trousers until Arthur pushed his hands away, because coming in his pants was _gross_ , for God’s sake, and he didn’t need much encouragement. Merlin would relent with a devilish grin and kiss Arthur stupid while taking both of them in hand and bringing them off, all slippery warmth, Arthur’s fingers wrapped around his wrist in a vice grip. Back in class, Merlin’s shirt sleeve would ride a little high, and Arthur would see the bruises he’d left and feel all the blood rush south in a split second, his brain clamping down on _oh fuck_.

Or that one time he got so worked up, he bent Merlin over some shelves in a supply closet, pulled his jeans down and humped his arse while jerking him off, one hand on his taut stomach, another hard and fast on his cock. Merlin didn’t like not being in control, was squirming and wriggling ceaselessly, so Arthur grabbed him by the hips and shoved his dick between Merlin’s tightly-pressed thighs, pistoning forward almost brutally and completely neglecting Merlin’s erection. Merlin wailed dully into his bent arms as Arthur fucked his thighs rough and hard, rubbing just under Merlin’s balls. He bit Merlin’s shoulder as he came hard enough to see stars.

Merlin shoved him back, straightening up with a groan, finally able to touch himself and pulling once, twice, maybe three times before his body seized and he slumped forward, Arthur’s arm around his middle the only thing stopping him from slamming headfirst into the shelves.

Having barely caught his breath, Merlin whirled around, his expression thunderous, pushed Arthur back against the door, and attacked his lips in a fierce, biting kiss that felt like warfare and went on and on and on, leaving Arthur grinning dopily for hours afterwards. He ruffled Merlin’s hair in a petting manner, earning himself a death glare before Merlin stormed out.

Arthur knew there’d be retribution sooner or later, but he still wasn’t ready when Merlin cornered him in the library, of all places. No one ever went to the obscure languages section, but it was still a very public place, and Arthur was about to put an end to it when Merlin sank down to his knees and pulled Arthur’s zipper open with his teeth.

Arthur staggered back into a wall, staring cross-eyed at Merlin’s grin that was pure, unadulterated _evil_. Merlin shifted closer, nosing at Arthur’s Y-fronts, mouthing at his cock through the fabric. Arthur let out a choked, pathetic whimper and hastily bit down on his knuckles, surrendering without a fight, because Merlin was sucking lightly through the thin cotton, unhurried and humming softly in pleasure as though Arthur’s erection was candy, and Arthur dared anyone alive to turn _that_ down.

Merlin finally pulled his pants down and was now taking his time shamelessly _ogling_ Arthur’s cock up close, his warm breath a delicious torture on the sensitised skin. Then, with another wicked grin, he wrapped his fingers around the base, pressing hard, which left Arthur equally frustrated and grateful. He was reeling and hyperventilating and very nearly blacked out as Merlin, eyes never leaving Arthur’s, opened his mouth wide and stuffed it full of cock methodically, not hesitating, not pausing until Arthur hit the back of his throat.

“ _Mrln_ ,” Arthur whimpered through his fingers, feeling his skin tightening everywhere, his body losing shape and becoming a huge, uncontrollable ball of bare nerve endings instead. It didn’t take much for him, it never did, and Arthur would have come already if not for Merlin’s fingers clamped around the base of his cock.

Merlin’s eyes glazed over with lust and satisfaction, black but for the thin rims of bright blue around the dilated pupils. He was watching Arthur, never looking away, barely blinking, as he hollowed his cheeks and sucked, the tip of his tongue curling up and _wriggling_.

Arthur thrashed his head against the wall, his thighs trembling violently, as Merlin bobbed his head up and down, sucking and twirling his tongue, unrelenting like he didn’t need to breathe, Arthur pinned to the wall by his dick like a moth. Arthur didn’t think he could take much more, and Merlin must have sensed it, because he squeezed his fingers harder and then relaxed his throat and pushed forward in one swift, liquefied motion, cutting off his own air supply as he sucked hard and swallowed.

Arthur’s body arched, pulled up on his toes, and seized, hammered down by the unbearable pleasure slamming into him, and then Merlin pulled his fingers away. Arthur exploded deep in his throat, spurting come in endless waves as Merlin swallowed and _swallowed_ around him, milking him dry.

The moment he pulled away, Arthur slid down to the floor, his legs giving out, springing to the sides like they belonged to someone else. Merlin was gasping for breath, his eyes watery, mouth swollen red and _wet_ , the tent in his jeans obvious. Arthur couldn’t do anything but sit there, unable to so much as lift an eyebrow, when Merlin reached for his shirt and ripped it open, buttons shooting everywhere. He pulled himself out and practically pounced on Arthur, straddling his hips, bracing himself on his shoulder and striping his cock in furious, desperate motions until he came all over Arthur’s chest, painting his skin deliberately in thick white ropes, as if Arthur was his to claim. As if Merlin _owned_ him.

Maybe he did.

Arthur didn’t say a word about the mess, even though he should have been outraged. All he wanted to do was gather Merlin close and hold him, kissing his neck and his ears, and telling him he had nothing to prove, because Arthur _was_ his if Merlin wanted him, was his even if he didn’t.

But that would be sappy and uncalled for, considering they had barely had half a conversation between them. Merlin didn’t need to know that Arthur daydreamed about taking him out on a boat ride and wanted to feed him greasy food and watch him lick his fingers.

Thrilled as he was when Merlin sought him out for sex, Arthur wanted him to seek him out when he had a tension headache so that Arthur could rub his shoulders, or when he needed a study partner, or when he was feeling low. Arthur wanted him there all the time, he wanted to walk the corridors with his arm over Merlin’s shoulders – or the other way around, he didn’t care – wanted to kiss him where everyone could see and laugh with him and tease him about his reading choices.

But Merlin became skittish as a colt whenever Arthur tried to move closer, and so they carried on sneaking around, snogging each other senseless in dark corners and having an ongoing feud about who could make the other come first (Arthur usually lost, but he was determined and getting better).

Sometimes, on extremely rare occasions when Merlin forgot himself or was too knackered in the wake of an orgasm (Arthur’s mouth was good for something, too), he would accidentally allow them to cuddle for a while, for a few moments of unguarded closeness.

Like that time in the teachers’ bathroom, with Merlin perched up on the sink, and Arthur standing between his legs, holding him. Merlin’s fingers scraped lazily around Arthur’s nipple and he chuckled. “It figures.”

“What?”

“Buff guys like you always have sensitive nipples.”

Arthur clenched his teeth, because he didn’t want to think about the others, about how many Merlin must have been with before he came to Camelot. It made him want to hit someone.

“You’re making fun of me for what I like?” he asked instead, even knowing Merlin couldn’t have, would never do that.

Merlin lifted his head and looked at him, blinking. “No, of course not. I like that about you. It’s just—”

“What?”

“I _know_ these things about you now. I didn’t before, and now I know. And I want – I want to know them all.”

Arthur swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Is that so bad?”

Merlin didn’t answer immediately, peering into space over Arthur’s shoulder for a while. When he looked back, his eyes were turbulent and bottomless, a brooding ocean. “Do you like me, Arthur?”

Heat rose in Arthur’s cheeks at the question, but he wasn’t going to lie. He suspected Merlin knew the answer, anyway. “Yes.”

Merlin nodded thoughtfully. “That’s because you don’t know me.”

“I _want_ to know you,” Arthur said before he could stop himself. “Why won’t you let me?”

But Merlin just shook his head and kissed him, gentle and fleeting, almost chaste. “Better this way.” He smiled, eyes sad. “Don’t fall in love with me, Arthur.”

 _As if_ , Arthur wanted to shout after him. _Think highly of yourself, do you?_ But the trouble was that a part of him, a tiny, frighteningly real part, was whispering, _Too late for that; where the hell have you been?_

It made Arthur angry, that little line. Who the fuck did Merlin think he was? And when was he going to drop his stupid Mister Enigma act? Was he only using Arthur for sex? What was it about Arthur that gave out the impression that he would allow anyone to use him? The very notion was ridiculous.

He tried to convince himself that what he had with Merlin was no different than what he and Kay had, but it was a lie. It _shouldn’t_ have been any different, and Arthur knew that. It was, though. It was for him.

“Why so grumpy, Princess?” Gwaine prodded him at lunch, smirking. “Is your booty call late today or something?”

Arthur blinked. Wrapped up in whatever he had going on with Merlin, he hadn’t realised their _whatever_ was common knowledge. Now that he thought of it, they probably were a bit obvious, pouncing on each other all over the place and emerging flushed and dishevelled, clothes wrinkled, expressions obviously pleased. Arthur was simply too preoccupied to pay attention to Gwaine’s progressively lewder smirks or Leon’s long face and pursed lips.

“Does everybody know?” he asked nervously.

Gwaine shrugged. “You’re not exactly stealthy, you lucky sod.”

Arthur frowned.

“What’s your problem anyway? Your street credit only grows higher, and it’s not like people expect you to actually date him.”

“Why not?”

Gwaine blinked. “Well, he’s already put out, hasn’t he?”

“Maybe I want it to be more than that.”

Gwaine’s jaws worked. “You want him to make an honest woman out of you?”

Leon frowned. “Arthur, you can’t be serious.”

“Why ever not?”

“Look, he’s... attractive in his own way, I suppose.” Gwaine snorted; Leon ignored him. “And no one will begrudge you a bit of fun. But dating him? It’s – you don’t know anything about him. Not where he comes from, not who his parents are. He’s here today, he might be gone tomorrow, and you have no idea what he’s after.”

“He’s not after anything,” Arthur snapped.

Leon shot him a dark look. “How do you know?”

Arthur pushed away from the table abruptly. “I’ve got to go.”

He was fuming for the rest of the day, cursing Leon and Merlin in turns, and getting no work done whatsoever.

***

It was somehow not surprising when he walked into the sixth formers’ common room the next day to find people crowding around Vivian, who had a laptop in front of her.

“Oi, Pendragon!” she called out with malicious glee. “Did you know that your precious boyfriend can fly?”

“The hell are you on about?”

“Come see for yourself.”

People parted as he walked toward her, and Arthur tried to ignore the whispers and sniggering, but his fists were clenched tight. He stared at the screen as Vivian hit play.

It was a trailer for a road circus – one of the crews travelling around the world in caravans, giving shows. They were the only anachronisms of the pre-industrial stage still in existence, strangely popular all over the globe in spite of the Internet, live sports broadcasts, and 3D films. Some of them were big enough to have home bases, like the famous Cirque du Soleil or Iseldir’s Cloudwalkers, that were touring like any major theatre, with ticket prices that didn’t just bite but chewed and swallowed.

This circus – Dragon Garden – seemed to be an old-fashioned travelling company, with about four dozen employees living on the road and including acrobats, rope dancers, strong men, knife throwers, fire swallowers and the like. The ad showcased some of the most impressive acts and announced the company’s schedule – dating two years back and touring Australia.

Arthur watched, seized by a growing sense of trepidation.

The trailer was about to end when he saw it – the star turn obviously saved for last. The tagline read: ‘ _The amazing flying motorcycle_.’ The camera moved in for a close-up of Merlin, with longer hair and softer features. He was sitting on his bike, smiling in a constipated way of someone who was just ordered to smile. The next shot showed him riding down a tall ramp, curled like a ski-jump. The motorcycle shot into the air, did a full-on back flip, and then landed on the other side of the ramp, leaving a sparkling trail behind it.

“Holy fuck,” Gwaine blurted out in shock, watching over Arthur’s shoulder. “How’s that even physically possible?”

 _No wonder he said he wouldn’t let me fall_ , Arthur thought in speechless amazement. _If he could do_ that—

Vivian snapped the laptop closed. “So how does it feel, Arthur, to be fucking a _circus freak_? I bet he’s really good at swallowing things, huh? Probably super bendy, too. Or is he secretly a bearded woman?”

Arthur had never in his life hit a girl, but he came dangerously close to it at that moment. He opened his mouth to deliver something that was no doubt going to be unforgivably rude and scathing when another voice cut clear through the laughter.

“I might be a circus freak, Vivian, but I still wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot poll. Shouldn’t that tell you something?”

Arthur spun around.

Merlin was standing in the doorway of the lounge, austere and lean in black, more beautiful than ever. He was paler than usual, and his eyes, trained on Vivian, were breathtakingly blue, crackling with gold. He must have come there for Arthur – he was the only reason Merlin ever ventured into the common room or the canteen.

The room filled with silence, broken only by Bors, Vivian’s boyfriend, who rose from his seat, advancing on Merlin menacingly. “What did you just say, you fucking _weirdo_?”

Merlin shot him an unimpressed look, completely disregarding the fact that Bors was roughly twice his size. “Do you have trouble hearing? If it’s because you don’t wash your ears, I can’t help you there, mate.”

Bors roared and lunged at him. Merlin ducked out of the way at the last moment, making Bors slam into the wall. He yelped in pain, grabbing at his nose as blood streamed down his face, and turned around, obviously intending to locate Merlin and do some major damage. Arthur stepped forward, as did Gwaine, and it probably would have become ugly, but at that moment, Aredian, the deputy headmaster, walked into the room.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “Mister Emrys – hitting fellow students is against school rules. If you can’t act in a civilised manner—”

“I didn’t _touch_ him,” Merlin snapped. “He walked into a wall all by himself.”

Aredian looked around, as though seeking to confirm the statement, and gathered a few grudging nods. He stared at Bors. “Is that true, Mister Vlysacek?”

It was obvious that he would gladly take Bors’s word over Merlin’s, but as Bors would sooner break his own nose than admit a twig like Merlin had done it, he nodded.

“Very well, then,” Aredian drawled, giving him a disparaging look. “Go get cleaned up; you’re being a disgrace. Mister Emrys. A word outside.”

Merlin whirled on his heel and walked out, not looking at anyone. Arthur followed suit, but someone grabbed his arm.

“This is exactly what I was talking about, Arthur,” Leon said lowly. “You’ve no idea—”

Arthur jerked his arm free, not wanting to listen to any more of _that_ , from Leon or anyone. He ducked out of the room, and stopped short.

“—might have tricked the board into accepting you, Mister Emrys, but make no mistake,” Aredian was saying. “You’re not welcome here. You’re _tolerated_ here, and only for as long as you’re not making trouble. The young ladies and gentlemen here are not your peers; don’t ever forget that.” 

His eyes narrowed. “I’ll be watching you, Emrys. One step over the line, just one step, and you’re out. Is that clear?”

“Crystal clear, sir.”

“Off you go, then. Find yourself somewhere else to be.”

Merlin walked away briskly, not waiting to be asked twice. Aredian turned to Arthur. “Can I help you, Mister Pendragon?”

Arthur hated Aredian, had always hated Aredian, even if his father was the man’s biggest fan. Every instinct was telling him that he’d do more harm than good, but Arthur couldn’t help it, boiling with anger.

“It wasn’t Merlin’s fault, sir. Bors tried to hit him.”

“I see,” Aredian said, his bland, ever-present smile in place. He took a few steps toward Arthur. “Yes, I see indeed. You’re quite smitten, Mister Pendragon. Understandable. You’re young, impressionable, and Mister Emrys certainly knows how to make an impression.” His lips quirked in disgust. “But let me tell you one thing, Master Arthur; I respect your father too much not to warn you. Merlin Emrys is not suitable company for a gentleman such as yourself.” He took Arthur by the arm, patting it. “You’d be best served not getting mixed with the likes of… _his_.”

Arthur jerked his arm free, shuddering with revulsion and fury. “Thank you for your concern, sir, but I can pick my own friends.” He stormed off, not waiting to be dismissed.

He caught up with Merlin in the car park, who was already sitting on his bike, about to take off.

“Merlin, wait!” Arthur jogged up to him. Merlin frowned, but waited. “Aredian is a git, don’t listen to him. And Vivian’s probably still smarting because you turned her down. Ignore them, please; they’re not worth it.”

Merlin was staring at him through narrowed eyes. “Is that all?”

“No.” Arthur floundered. “I – I wanted to tell you. About the caravan thing. I don’t care.”

Merlin snorted humourlessly. “Of course you care, Arthur. Bloody hell, _I_ care.”

“I just—”

“Why do you think I’m here to begin with?” Merlin huffed. “My father didn’t want me to go. He thinks that just because I have a certain... gift, a _skill set_ , my place is in his circus, and that’s all I’ll ever be – a circus freak. And don’t get me wrong – we _are_ freaks, though not in the sense your friend Vivian meant, and I like being one.” He sighed, looking weary. “I just thought I could be more than that.”

“You are.” Arthur stepped closer. “You _are_ more than that, Merlin. You’re the smartest person I know. You could be anything you want, and all Vivian will ever be is somebody’s trophy wife.”

Merlin sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t care about Vivian. It’s not about her.”

“I know.”

Arthur caught Merlin’s face between his hands and kissed him in full view of whoever was willing to look. Merlin wasn’t very responsive, but Arthur persisted, until finally he coaxed Merlin to return the kiss, albeit less than enthusiastically.

Arthur pulled back, searching his face. “Go out with me.”

Merlin closed his eyes. “Arthur...”

“No. I want us to go on a proper date. Dinner and a film. Or just dinner, or a walk in the park – fuck, Merlin, whatever you like. I’ll walk you home and kiss you goodnight on the porch, and won’t even angle for you to ask me in for a cup of coffee.” He grinned. “I certainly won’t turn you down if you do, but no pressure.”

Merlin sat absolutely still for a moment, head bent low, as though Arthur’s words had made him shrink. He leaned further back, gently pulling Arthur’s hands away.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I can’t.”

He backed away from the car park and drove off, not looking back once, barely sparing a glance for the traffic. Arthur stood where Merlin left him for a long time, motionless, ignoring the stares.

When he finally headed for his own car, it had begun to rain.

***

_“...even be sure they were kidnappings. The Sidhe involvement had never been consistently proven.”_

_“There’s only one way you can prove it consistently. The lake of Avalon must be drained, its bottom searched, then filled with salt and sand. That’s the only way we can guarantee our citizens’ safety – our families’ safety. Avalon must be unwatered.”_

“Ceterum censeo Carthaginem esse delendam,” Arthur muttered, staring at the telly where Uther had been raving for the better part of the hour already and wasn’t going to take a break any time soon, if the sour expressions of the members of the House of Commons were any indication. “Furthermore, Carthage must be destroyed.”

“Well, that’s optimistic,” Morgana said, folding one leg under her as she came to sit next to him on the couch, a glass of wine in her hand. “He’s really beginning to sound like a broken record, I’ll give you that. There really isn’t anything better on?”

Arthur lifted his eyebrows. “You’re saying there’s a better way for us to commune with a parental figure than to watch weekly parliamentary debates?”

“Of course not; that would be blasphemy.”

“Sometimes I think we owe it to him to be blasphemous. You know – he’s so self-righteous, it’s practically a prerequisite to have prodigal children.”

“So we should be what, revolutionaries?”

“We could be heroes.”

“If you start singing, I will hurt you.”

He made a grabby hands gesture, pointing at her glass. “Can I have some?”

“No. It’s a school night, Arthur.”

He pouted. “ _You_ ’re drinking.”

“That’s because I can hold my liquor. Also, I’m not the one moping and being at risk of substance abuse.”

“I am _not_ moping.”

“Pining, then. It’s been a week, Arthur.”

Arthur sighed. It _had_ been a week. A week of trying to remember what it was like before Merlin; of expecting him to grab Arthur’s wrist and pull him into a dark alcove, only to remember that he wasn’t going to ever again. A week of realising how much he missed not only Merlin’s touch and the hot press of his body in a small, awkward space of a loo cubicle, but seeing his beaming smile, or enjoying the show of him being a smartarse in class.

Merlin was quiet now, answering questions strictly to a point and not volunteering anything at all, not responding to any jibes or jokes from the teachers. He ignored not only Arthur, but Gwaine and all the other people he usually talked to, even Gwen and Lance. Every inch of him emanated ‘leave me alone,’ and it was so strong that even Gwaine had caught it.

It was painful to watch.

“I don’t get it,” Arthur muttered. “I just don’t get it. So he used to work at a circus, so what? It’s like Lily Roberts always says her mother is an actress, but we all know what it’s a euphemism for. I mean, honestly, there are worse things out there and nobody cares, so what the fuck _is_ his problem?”

“Arthur—”

“No, really, did you see anyone give him shit about it? Apart from Vivian, but that’s ridiculous. I mean, can you imagine _Merlin_ being bullied? I know I can’t. For one thing, none of us are thirteen. For another, he stared down _Cenred_ , for fuck’s sake.”

Morgana shrugged. “Maybe it’s not about the bullying.”

“Then what _is_ it about?”

She sipped her wine and shook her head slowly. On the screen, Uther was yelling at some unfortunate MP on mute. Arthur sighed. It was less entertaining than it used to be.

“Do you remember when we were seven, how there was that company touring near Camelot?”

Arthur grinned. “I do. How many times did we sneak out to see them – four? Five? You had a crush on the sword master.”

“Excuse _me_ ,” Morgana huffed, “ _you_ had a crush on the sword master. You kept on raving how you wanted a sword like his when you grew up, and since you were seven, I doubt that was a euphemism, which was just sad. _I_ was in love with the belly dancers.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“God, I remember. That was... But fuck, that’s exactly my point. Everybody _loves_ the circus, caravans especially. He’s being an idiot—”

“Father wouldn’t let us go, though,” Morgana said pensively. “We had to sneak out through you bedroom window.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Father didn’t want us to go to a school trip to Lake Avalon, either.” He gestured at the telly. “He was quite determined not to let us have any fun at all.”

“Hm.” Morgana seemed thoughtful.

Arthur hated when she got that look, like she knew something he didn’t or had thought of something before him. “What?”

But instead of gloating, she shook her head, and even put her glass down. “Nothing.”

“ _Morgana_.”

“It’s really nothing, Arthur. I’m probably wrong, anyway.” She stood up and reached to ruffle his hair; he swatted her hand away. “I’m going to bed. Don’t stay up too long; you look like shit without your beauty sleep.”

“Oh, piss off.”

***

Friday wasn’t any better, except where it was actually worse. It started with him having to watch Merlin’s complete indifference to Mithian complimenting his latest essay. The rest of the class sat in mild shock, since Mithian never actually praised anyone. Arthur wondered briefly if she was feeling guilty, since it had been her careless remark that had sent Vivian snooping – something Arthur hadn’t quite forgiven Mithian for – but he dismissed the thought almost instantly. Mithian didn’t do guilty; she must have been truly impressed.

Merlin gave her a terse nod and didn’t say anything. It was as if someone had found his off switch.

Arthur knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. He blocked Merlin’s path on his way out. “Congratulations, mate.”

Merlin sent him an odd look, lingered for a split second as though contemplating saying something. But then he visibly braced himself and pushed past Arthur, lips pursed, jawline tight.

Arthur gritted his teeth. _All right, then_.

His mood already foul, he didn’t need to spend his lunch break at the headmistress’s office, trying to talk her out of expelling two of his cricket team boys for smoking on the school premises and accidentally starting a fire.

Annis was a fair woman, for whom Arthur had a great deal of respect, but she was also a severe disciplinarian and rather quick to judge. Coach was of no help whatsoever, the boys’ pathetic whimpering grating on Arthur’s nerves as he advocated in favour of another chance and a long probation. In the end, he managed to convince her to even keep them on the team, but by the time it was sorted, Arthur was feeling positively exhausted and at the end of his patience.

The last thing he needed as he jogged, slightly late, to his next class was to see Cenred crowd some unfortunate girl against the door, trying to snog her. The girl was pushing at him ineffectually, her small fists impotent against his bulk.

Arthur didn’t even pause to think or to give out a warning. He grabbed Cenred’s shoulder, pulled him away from his ruffled victim, and shoved him hard.

“Fuck!” Cenred grunted, catching himself before he hit the wall. “What the fuck’s your problem, Pendragon? We were having a private conversation.”

“Didn’t look like conversation to me,” Arthur snapped, and turned to the girl. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she breathed out. “Thanks to you.”

Arthur hadn’t seen her before; she was probably a new transfer. She was pretty in the way that was probably irresistible to connoisseurs of the female form, with wavy locks of strawberry blond hair that were currently in artful disarray, bright lips, soft eyes, and a curvy figure. It would certainly explain Cenred’s forwardness, considering that he was normally more careful in his exploits.

“You’d better go on to class then,” Arthur told her, trying for a kinder tone. He wasn’t sure he managed.

She nodded, pulling up a strap of her top, and hurried away, throwing one last nervous look at Cenred.

“The hell do you think you’re doing, Kingsley? Are you high or just stupid?”

“I only wanted to have a little fun.” Cenred’s eyes flashed with anger. “You just had to butt in, Pendragon, didn’t you? You think that because you can’t get even a sideshow freak to suck your cock, we should all go without, huh?”

Something inside Arthur’s brain locked, his vision blurred in red, and his fist was in the air before he could have any half-formed thought about it. It collided with Cenred’s jaw with a satisfying crack, sending him rolling to the floor.

“Mister Pendragon!” The headmistress’s voice boomed across the corridor. “What is the meaning of this?”

Arthur stared at her, shaking his bruised knuckles, then looked at the smirk lurking in the corner of Cenred’s mouth even as he was cradling his jaw.

“Detention,” Annis snapped loud enough to make the windowpanes rattle. “My office. _Now_.”

Arthur’s shoulders sagged. He was having a phenomenally bad day.

***

Annis’ idea of detention was to make Arthur do a full inventory of the old storage rooms that seemed to breed in the basement. Within thirty minutes, he’d swallowed enough dust to require a vacuum cleaning of his entire body, not to mention that he’d missed the football practice. Arthur expected half the school to have heard of the incident by now, and he could only hope Leon would manage to keep the guys in check and make them actually play football instead of doing something monumentally stupid, like tracking Cenred down.

He opened another unmarked box and discovered what looked like a few stones of discharged batteries. Arthur blinked, firmly forbade himself from thinking about _why_ , made a note on his clipboard, and moved on to the next box.

Someone cleared a throat behind him, making him jump. He whirled around to find the girl from before smiling at him shyly from the doorway.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“I wasn’t frightened. Well, startled maybe.”

She laughed. “Sorry about startling you, then. They told me you were down here, and I thought I’d come to say thank you. For helping me out.”

“Um. No problem.”

She stepped toward him, offering him a hand. “I’m Sophia Tirmore.”

“Arthur Pendragon.”

She dimpled. “They told me.”

“So, um.” Arthur shifted uncomfortably. “Did you – want something?”

“Just to say hello to my knight in shining armour.” Sophia batted her eyelashes, blushing prettily. “It was very brave of you to step in like that. Saved my first day here from being a disaster.”

“Oh, well, um. Glad I could help.”

She was still standing there, smiling at him, twirling a lock of hair around her finger.

Oh. _Oh no_.

“Listen, I really need to get back to this—”

“I can help you. You got in trouble because of me, after all.”

“No, you don’t have to, really. No, Sophia, I mean it.”

She was crowding him against the shelves, and Arthur panicked. He was certain there would be tears, and he was absolutely terrified of tears.

“Just a kiss then,” she murmured. “For luck.”

“No, really, I’m flattered, I really am, you’re very pretty, but I’m gay, you see, and—”

“Nonsense,” she purred, cupping his face in her hands. “You just haven’t met the right girl yet.”

Arthur gritted his teeth. He hated when they said that. They _always_ said that. “No, listen, I don’t—”

She rose up on her toes and kissed him. Arthur tried to pull back, but couldn’t, all of a sudden. Her lips were soft, honey-sweet. With a groan, he opened his mouth for another taste.

He was suddenly too hot, sickly hot, and the room was spinning. Was it even a room anymore? Everything was blurry and rippling. Sophia was kissing him... no, she was looking at him, whispering something. He couldn’t understand a word, not really, but in there somewhere there was something about her home and sending a message. He wanted to ask her, but he couldn’t talk. Her eyes were glowing ruby red, hypnotic. Arthur couldn’t breathe.

He swayed, starting to fall, his elbow smashing into something sharp and solid. Pain cleared his head abruptly, and he looked around, blinking. 

He was in the same small storing room, but Sophia was gone, and the door was closed. There was a harsh metallic creak as though someone was trying to blow an iron balloon. Arthur whirled, searching for the source of the sound, and froze as he saw the water pipe in the corner swell, as though it was growing from the inside.

“What the hell—”

The metal cringed under pressure and finally gave, popping up like popcorn, and a thick spray of water hit Arthur, throwing him back, like a water gun.

“Fuck!” he scrambled to his feet, reaching for the door handle. Something must have gone wrong with the plumbing; he needed to call someone before the water could cause any serious damage.

The door wouldn’t budge. Arthur pulled at the handle, but it seemed to be stuck fast, the lock secured and for some reason unwilling to give. Arthur cursed, looking down at what was now almost a foot of water splashing around his calves. The exploded pipe continued to regurgitate water, bombarding Arthur’s back and showing no signs of stopping.

“Hey!” Arthur hit the door with his fists, trying to see through the small window if there was anyone in sight. Hardly anyone ever went to the basement, but he needed to try. They were going to have a flood on their hands if he didn’t raise enough noise.

“Fuck,” Arthur muttered, searching through his pockets for his mobile. He really wasn’t in best shape today. A split second later, he cursed again – Annis had confiscated his phone for the duration of the detention. He couldn’t call anyone.

The water was now almost at his hips, coming up fast. It was leaking out through the crack under the door, but not nearly fast enough to compete with the fountain that was shooting from the pipe.

Arthur tried to push the door open, but it wouldn’t budge, and the lock seemed to be glued to the wall. Forget the flooding of the basement, Arthur realised abruptly, turning cold. If he didn’t find a way out within the next few minutes—

He was going to drown.

***

Oh _fuck_ no. He was Arthur bloody Pendragon, and he didn’t _panic_.

Arthur shoved away the rubbish floating around him, washed out from the boxes where it was sentenced to end its days in oblivion, and searched for options. It didn’t look good. The room had no windows, no ventilation slots, and only one exit. Save for kicking the door out, nothing was going to help, and Arthur had tried to do just that.

It was no good. The door seemed to have merged with the walls, and it was hard to throw his full weight against it when his body would no longer stay on the floor, instead propelled up by the water. Arthur shouted as loud as he could and knocked against the door with his palms, but he had a horrible, sickening feeling that the water around him was somehow swallowing the sounds, making him mute to the outside world.

He had to dive to get to the door window now, and the little pocket of air he had left would only last about a minute. Arthur drew in as much air as he could before diving down for what he suspected would be his last attempt to draw anyone’s attention.

He was dizzy with the lack of oxygen, and one look up made him realise he was out of time. He slammed his fists against the door desperately, unwilling to believe that this was it.

Suddenly, there was a startled pair of eyes on the other side of the door, right in front of him.

_Merlin!_

Arthur’s mind cried out, hope flaring up even as his lungs began to ache. Merlin’s face was scared – panicked. He pulled at the door, but didn’t have any more success with it than Arthur had. So this was it, after all, Arthur thought, succumbing to his fate. At least Merlin would be the last person he saw before—

There was a bright flash of gold, a deafening roar, and then the door was _sucked out_.

The torrent rushed outside, throwing Arthur out into the wide corridor at damaging speed, carrying him out along with every other object the room had inside it. Hands grabbed at his waist, and Arthur clung to whoever it was instinctively, curling up around someone as they were thrown left and right by the roaring stream of water like ragdolls.

They finally stopped at the foot of the stairs, gasping for air. Arthur’s whole body felt like a giant bruise, but damn, it was good to be alive. He pulled himself up on his knees, coughing as he looked around.

Merlin – a soaked-through, wild-eyed Merlin – was sprawled against the wall, one hand wrapped around the railing, staring at Arthur in shock.

“You saved my life,” Arthur breathed out, trying to work up the strength to stand up. He was shaking. “You saved my _life_ , Merlin.”

“Yeah.” Merlin was panting, obviously struggling to get his legs to work. He stilled suddenly, and sat up, staring at Arthur in panic. “I mean, no! I didn’t! I just – I just opened the door.”

Arthur shook his head. “You saved my life.”

Merlin didn’t reply.

Around them, the flow of water was abating.

***

An hour later, Arthur was almost wishing he _had_ drowned. He was back at the headmistress’s office, a little overcrowded now with Annis, Aredian, Helen Mora, and even Coach all cramped inside, talking about what happened. Arthur was getting steadily sick listening to round after round of them groping helplessly at known facts that didn’t make any kind of sense.

The pipes were part of an old plumbing system that hadn’t been in use for years – how did the water get there? How did the pipe, an enforced steel and copper alloy, break? Why did the lock get stuck? Who was the girl, Sophia Tirmore, since the school register had no mention of that name and no one knew anything about her? Where did she go? Was she responsible? How did she do it? Why? _How why, how why, howwhy_.

Arthur gritted his teeth. All he wanted to do was to get the hell out of there, shed the bundle of blankets that they’d wrapped around him, and just go home. He’d had a horrible day, and he wanted it to end.

But there was a tiny shred of good in the midst of it, and Arthur clung to it. He stared at Merlin, who was sitting quietly in the chair next to him, a gym towel thrown over his shoulders. He seemed pale and nervous and didn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

It was because Arthur was watching him so closely that he saw the tiny flare of reaction when Aredian said ‘ _Magic_.’

Merlin started. It was barely noticeable, but definitely there. He shot a glance at Aredian, and he looked... Arthur very nearly did a double take, because Merlin looked scared.

“What do you mean, magic?” Annis demanded impatiently.

“I mean magic, Headmistress. Nothing else can explain what happened here. I would even go as far as to specify that I’m _confident_ it was, in fact, Sidhe magic. If you were watching the debates in Parliament last night—”

“I have better ways to spend my time then to listen to politicians squabble,” Annis dismissed.

Aredian was the picture of patience. “Well, had you been watching, Headmistress, you would have heard Uther Pendragon propose a rather radical solution to the problem of the Sidhe terrorists. And water, I might point out, has always been one of their favourite weapons.”

Heavy silence followed his words, broken unexpectedly by Arthur.

“It makes sense; I should have thought about it earlier. It’s not like this would be the first time.”

Merlin, who had yet to say a word beyond his initial ‘I was just walking by, I heard a noise,’ gasped loudly and grabbed Arthur’s wrist. “This happened before?”

Arthur looked at him, warmed by the mixture of concern and fear he saw in Merlin’s eyes. “Yes, but not to this extent. My father’s always waged war against magic—”

“As is only right and as it should be,” Aredian interrupted pompously.

His smug tone made Arthur narrow his eyes. “Should it, now? Should people really pay higher taxes just because they can light a bloody candle or are always able to find their car keys? Will that keep them warm in winter when they can’t pay for their heating because no one would hire them? Should they really register and show up for invasive check-ups twice a year just because they have magic? Martial arts masters don’t register, professional fighters don’t register—”

“Mister Pendragon—”

But Arthur couldn’t stop now that he had started. Aredian had always provoked the kind of anger in him that even Uther had rarely managed. It may well have been because the man actually believed that Uther was _soft_ on magic. But more likely it had to do with the way the deputy headmaster used to leer at Morgana.

“A magic user can’t get into a school like this one—”

“I’ll have you know we have a non-discrimination policy,” Annis cut in harshly.

“On paper!” Arthur snapped. “The board of governors always finds a reason to dismiss them. My father was on that board, so yes, I know. How many magic users are attending classes in this school right now, Headmistress?”

“Hopefully, none,” Aredian interjected smoothly, as Annis huffed, muttering darkly something about not being schooled by a boy. “Mister Pendragon, while it is clear that you feel strongly on the subject—”

“You think?” Arthur snorted bitterly. “My father allowed a single magical event to shape his entire political agenda and has been crusading ever since, but he fails to understand that it’s pointless and unfair. Magic is like any other ability – neither good, nor bad, but depending on the person who uses it.”

Arthur was too caught up in his flight of passion to really take stock of his surroundings, and had glanced at Merlin almost accidentally in the middle of it. And froze.

Merlin was watching raptly, his eyes wide, his jaw slack, a completely captivated expression on his face, as though Arthur had just confessed that it was he, by the by, who’d hung the moon in the sky in the first place, and might have painted a couple of stars beside it for good measure.

“My point is,” Arthur said, unable to look away, and struggling to remember what he was talking about, “it did happen before, but not as severely. I mean, I was cursed a couple of times, but it wasn’t serious. Like, I’d catch a cold in the middle of summer, or would be turning blue whenever I lied. They’d never made an attempt on my life before. But I guess,” he added slowly, finally tearing his eyes from Merlin’s, “they had a reason this time. Not that I condone what that girl did, but my father did threaten to destroy her home last night on national television.”

“Be that as it may, she is a _terrorist_ , and should be found and punished,” Aredian said coldly.

“Don’t you mean ‘found and brought to justice?’” Arthur snapped.

“That’s enough, Mister Pendragon,” Annis said tiredly. “We are all sympathetic to your recent experience, but that’s no excuse to be disrespectful.”

Arthur bit his lip and stayed silent by sheer force of will. He was so fed _up_ with this.

“We should investigate the matter thoroughly before any actions are taken. I’ll contact the board—”

“I concur, Headmistress,” Aredian agreed immediately. “And I would like to start with Mister Emrys here.”

“Me?” Merlin started.

“Yes, Mister Emrys. Could you explain how you managed to open the door, again?”

“Um.” Merlin swallowed. “I don’t know, really. I just pulled really hard, I suppose.”

“‘Pulled really hard,’ hm?” Aredian repeated. “Mister Emrys, the tongue of that lock was cast iron, an inch thick. Right now, it looks as if someone burned through it. So let me ask you again – how did you open the door?”

Merlin cowered under Aredian’s gaze. Arthur stared. Merlin _never_ cowered.

“I don’t – I’m not sure—”

“Maybe it’s the way the magic works,” Arthur said, because he simply couldn’t watch Merlin squirm a moment longer. With every passing moment, the urge to strangle Aredian was becoming overwhelming, and there were only so many things Arthur could get away with on the count of being in shock. “Maybe she only enchanted the door so that it couldn’t be opened from the _in_ side. She must have known nobody ever goes to the basement of their own free will. Maybe all anyone from the _out_ side had to do was simply open it.”

There was another long pause as they contemplated this. Merlin, pale as a sheet, didn’t seem to breathe, and Arthur wanted so badly to reach out to him that his fingers ached.

“It does make sense,” Helen Mora said finally. “I’m no magic expert, but I think Arthur’s right. We were all just lucky that Merlin happened to be nearby.”

“Indeed,” Aredian intoned, eyes trained on Merlin. “Incredibly lucky. I wonder—”

A door suddenly flew open to reveal a frantic looking Morgana. “ _ARTHUR!_ ” she shrieked before launching herself into his arms. “Oh my God, are you all right? _Are you all right?_ ”

“Mmph,” was all Arthur managed. “Morgana, let go. I’m all right, but if you don’t let me go, you’ll strangle me.”

She dropped him like a sack of potatoes and turned toward Merlin instead, who jumped to his feet, knocking off his chair in the process, with a mildly terrified look on his face. 

“You saved my brother,” Morgana proclaimed, advancing on him with a smile that looked nothing short of demented. “I’m going to kiss you right now. On the lips. Possibly with tongue. I’m going to do that right before I call my father and have him sue this place from here into the next century if they don’t release you both right now, because obviously you’re in shock and should be in bed. I mean, not together in bed, obviously, although—”

“Right,” Annis said quickly, getting to her feet. “Miss Pendragon is right. Arthur, Merlin, you should go home, get some rest. I can have someone drive you—”

“No, no, I’ll take them,” Morgana gave her a slightly maniacal grin. “I promise to take good care of them and put them back in their boxes after I’m done playing. Come on, boys.”

In the end, Arthur had to grab Merlin’s elbow and drag him out of the room, losing the blasted blankets one by one as they went.

***

Once outside, Morgana dropped her Mad Hatter act at once, though it didn’t seem to do much for reassuring Merlin. He seemed apathetic enough, however, to allow Arthur to steer him with a hand on his arm, or perhaps he was too deep in thought to notice.

Arthur wondered vaguely how it was that he was the one who’d nearly drowned just a couple of hours ago, yet it was Merlin who seemed the most shaken, almost fragile. Morgana turned to look at them over her shoulder, opened her mouth as if to say something, then gave a tiny shake of her head and walked on in silence.

When they walked into the open, however, Merlin seemed to snap out of it, and Arthur let him go hastily, hoping he hadn’t noticed. Merlin blinked, as though surprised by the intensity of the sunset. He glanced at Morgana hesitantly before touching Arthur’s stomach with the back of his hand, halting him.

“Look, this is going to sound weird, but – would you mind terribly if I see you home?”

Arthur bit his lip to save himself from saying anything stupid. However, as all the responses popping up in his head could have easily fallen into that category, he found himself in a bit of a tight spot, and the silence stretched.

Fortunately, Morgana decided to save the situation with her usual abundance of grace and tact. “For fuck’s sake, Arthur, stop being a pansy and invite him over or I will.”

Merlin started, then immediately became overly interested in the patterns on the pavement. Arthur blushed, but nodded. “Yes, that. What she said. Not the pansy part, obviously. The other part.”

Morgana rolled her eyes and stretched a hand toward him commandingly, snapping her fingers. “Keys.”

Arthur scowled, but didn’t argue, digging the keys from his trouser pocket and throwing them at her. Because she was really annoying when she wanted to be (which was all the time, really), Morgana caught them easily with a nasty smile and climbed into the driver’s seat.

Merlin’s fingers pulled at the hem of Arthur’s shirt worriedly. “You really want me to—”

Arthur sighed, grabbed him by the back of the neck, and shoved him into the backseat, climbing in after him. Their knees knocked when Merlin wasn’t quick enough to move over, and the tyres gave out a whine as Morgana took off. Arthur made a pained noise, but, in a surprising show of self-control, didn’t say anything.

“So what were you really doing down there?” he asked Merlin instead once they were safely (more or less) on the motorway.

Merlin looked at him warily. “I was looking for you, actually. I heard what happened with Cenred – what he said to you—”

Arthur’s jaw clenched. “So – what, you decided it was your fault I got detention?”

“No. Yes? Fuck, Arthur, I don’t know. I just – I wanted to talk to you, and then you were… drowning.” His voice broke a little on the last word.

Arthur studied him curiously. He still seemed more shaken by the entire thing than Arthur was, and kept sneaking glances at Arthur, as though to make sure he was still there, when he thought Arthur wasn’t looking. It was strangely... gratifying.

“What were you going to say?” Arthur kept his tone light, casual. “If I wasn’t drowning?”

Merlin shrugged. “I didn’t rehearse a speech, if that’s what you’re asking. I was going to apologise, I guess.” He looked at Arthur. “I _am_ sorry. About before. About—”

“Dumping me in front of the whole school?” Arthur finished. “Yeah, that wasn’t very nice.”

“I didn’t _dump_ you! I didn’t know we were – that’s not what I—”

“Oh, well, that’s all right, then.”

“Damn it, Arthur.” Merlin groaned. “Will you just _listen_?”

“You don’t seem to be saying anything—”

Merlin made a frustrated noise and flung himself over, grabbing Arthur by the neck and hauling him into a kiss.

Arthur fully intended to shove him away – except, while his brain was busy having that thought, his hands gripped Merlin’s waist to steady him, his lips parted, and he _moaned_ into the kiss, because he’d missed it – more than he thought he had, because Merlin wasn’t being apologetic at all. He was fierce and desperate, and pride and principles seemed to be vastly unimportant compared to the solid weight of Merlin in his arms, warm even through two sets of soggy clothes.

Merlin pulled back when they were both breathless and stared at Arthur, eyes wide and charcoal-blue in the shadows. “I’m sorry.”

Arthur sighed, his whole body going lax, and he couldn’t fight himself any more than he could fight Merlin. It was weird, because he normally held on to his grudges and was notoriously slow to forgive. But this time, that stubborn determination had left him before he’d even known, and he was already there before Merlin even had to ask for it. It was bizarre, but it also just – was.

He nipped at Merlin’s jaw, though, just to be contrary. Merlin’s lips twitched, and Arthur couldn’t bite back a grin of his own. They were staring at each other, beaming like idiots.

Morgana cleared her throat loudly. Merlin jumped, and quickly moved back from Arthur’s lap to his own seat, even though Arthur tried to stop him, glaring at the back of Morgana’s head. She caught his glare in the rear view mirror and stuck her tongue out at him.

“Eyes on the road, woman.”

“Call Leon,” Morgana shot back.

Arthur sighed, but he supposed he had to. His whole football team had been loitering outside the headmistress’s office when they’d heard what happened, until Helen had walked out and made them all go home. Arthur was grateful. Much as he appreciated his friends’ concerns, he didn’t want to be dealing with them just then, let alone tell the whole sodding tale of how he’d been tricked by a girl all over again.

Leon picked up on the first ring. “Arthur, _thank God_. What the fuck happened? Are you all right?”

Arthur suppressed a sigh, and turned to look out the window. He knew the conversation would take the whole ride home.

***

“Wow, you actually _live_ in here?”

“…Problem?” Arthur couldn’t decide if that was awe or disgust in Merlin’s voice. Maybe both.

Barely through the door, Merlin looked around owlishly. “This is like a museum. An actual, live-in museum.”

Arthur looked around, too, trying to see his house through a stranger’s eyes. He supposed Merlin had a point. Redwood panelling on the walls; the paintings; the eighteenth century fireplace – a work of a famous French architect, complete with incrustations and copper lining; thick Persian rugs on the floor, all handmade and unique, most bearing the Pendragon crest; carefully preserved, centuries-old frescos on the ceiling. Every piece served to drive the point home, emphasising that the Pendragons were old money – _very_ old money, in fact, that neither Uther nor his children had actually earned.

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, watching Merlin take it all in.

“You’re some kind of royalty, aren’t you?” Merlin asked, a small, incredulous smile playing on his lips. “And to think that, of all people in that school, I had to pick _you_.”

“Oi!”

“Seriously, this is like a bad, bad cliché. You’re a prince and I’m – well, a commoner.”

“A commoner?”

“You know. Someone simple.”

Arthur grabbed Merlin in a headlock, hauling him close. “Why do I get the feeling that there’s not a single thing about you that is simple, Merlin?” he purred in Merlin’s ear, rewarded when Merlin shivered. Arthur kissed his cheek. “Come on, kitchen’s this way. Morgana’s ordering takeaway, and she’ll snatch all the good choices if we don’t hurry up.”

Morgana, however, met them halfway, a cordless in her hand and a grim expression on her face. She handed Arthur the phone, mouthing _Uther_.

Arthur stiffened, let go of Merlin, and took the receiver. “Father?”

“Arthur! Are you all right, son?”

“I’m fine, Father. Still wet, but no longer dripping.”

“Now is hardly the time for jokes. Do you realise how concerned I was when they called me from the school? Stupid, incompetent—”

“It’s not their fault I was attacked.”

“They should have tightened security, screened for magic users—”

Arthur’s eyes found Morgana. Enough of what Uther was saying was evidently trickling through, because she looked thunderous.

“—the next time I try to pass that bill, maybe they’ll listen.”

“Magic isn’t against the law, Father.”

“It should be; I’ve been saying it for years. They target you in seeking to intimidate me, but that won’t work. I won’t bend to the likes of them, no matter how far they’d go.”

Arthur pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Good to know that them threatening the life of your only son doesn’t put you off.”

“These people only understand one language, Arthur – cold iron. It’s not too late to reopen those mines.”

Arthur didn’t say anything. He wished he’d never picked up the phone.

“I’ve spoken to Aredian. He’s a good man, and I trust him to investigate the matter thoroughly. We’ve decided it’s best not to involve police; I’m sure you understand.”

_No, that wouldn’t look too good in the press, would it? Uther Pendragon, a radical anti-magic legislator and an absentee father, is more concerned about his political agenda than his children’s safety—_

“I understand.”

There was a pause. Then:

“Do you want to come to London for a few days? I can speak to that headmistress of yours; it could be arranged. For Morgana, too, if you want.”

_Why? So you could kiss my scrapes and bruises better? You’ve never done that in your life. It’s not like you’re familiar with the concept._

“There’s no need, Father; I’m fine. I’d prefer not to interrupt my studies.”

“Good. Well, then, I’ll leave you to it. Keep up the good work, Arthur.”

The line went dead. Arthur’s jaw worked for a moment. Finally, he shoved the phone blindly in the general direction of Morgana, and spun around. “I’m going to take a shower.”

It wasn’t as though this was a surprise. Uther had never known what to do with a child, let alone two. Ygraine and Vivienne had died within three months of each other, leaving him with Arthur and Morgana respectively. In came an army of nannies and governesses and, when the children became too old for those, Uther started treating them as smaller versions of adults. 

Arthur was used to it. It wasn’t as though he was a child anymore, either, but he’d very nearly died today.

_He’d nearly died._

It hit him suddenly, the belated reaction – all the stale adrenaline poisoning his blood, making him shiver as he stood naked in his bathroom, listening to the sound of running water and unable to step under the spray.

Water. Enclosed space and water.

 _Fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck, ohfuck_...

He could do it. He should. He couldn’t go on through life unable to take a bloody shower. He was being ridiculous. It was like falling off a horse for the first time – you needed to get back on at once, or you’d never be able to again.

Arthur gritted his teeth and stepped forward into the shower stall, the spray scalding hot. He shivered under it, gripping a wall handle, fighting off the urge to spring out, away from the sound of rushing water filling his ears.

Suddenly, a pair of arms wrapped around him from behind, and Arthur jolted, startled – but relaxed almost instantly. He knew those arms, lean and wiry; knew those hands, with long, graceful fingers; knew the lips that kissed a spot under his ear before whispering, “Mind if I join you?”

Arthur growled and whirled around, pushed Merlin – a wet, naked Merlin – against the tiled wall, and smashed their mouths together in a hard, hungry kiss. Merlin moaned, his fingers digging into Arthur’s arms as he pulled him closer, both of them rough, impatient, fear-fuelled as they clutched and ripped at each other, graceless and almost savage.

Merlin shoved Arthur back, pinning him to the wall, stepping between his legs, hands roaming everywhere, hot water whipping them both as they rutted and groaned. They kissed and kissed, Arthur’s fingers pulling Merlin’s wet hair viciously as Merlin rubbed against, wild and instinct-driven.

Arthur flipped them over again, unable to stop touching Merlin’s firm, wiry body. He’d never seen Merlin fully naked before, and he was too far gone to really look now, but his whole body searched him out. It felt incredible when Arthur’s belly slid along Merlin’s concave stomach, a rippled washboard when his muscles tensed. Arthur could feel it, every shift under the smooth ivory of his skin, flushed from the heat of the water.

Then there was Merlin’s cock, long and thick and perfect, and Arthur knew suddenly what he wanted – no, what he _had_ to do.

He gripped Merlin’s hips for balance and slid to his knees, looking up, trembling with need. Merlin was blinking, looking down at Arthur as though lost without him, his fingers tangling in Arthur’s hair.

Arthur traced the prominent jut of Merlin’s hipbone with his teeth and looked up again. “I want you to fuck my mouth.”

Merlin gasped, hand digging into Arthur’s shoulder. “Arthur—”

“I need it. Please.”

Merlin stared at him for an endless moment before nodding slowly, and Arthur knew he understood. He opened his mouth then, wet with anticipation, angled his jaw, and watched Merlin’s face as Merlin guided himself in, gentle but relentless. He stopped when he reached the back of Arthur’s throat, not pushing further, cradling Arthur’s face in his hands, his thumbs skimming over Arthur’s cheekbones as though they could sense the tears through all the water and longed to chase them away. Arthur felt dizzy, overcome with emotion too powerful for him to even hope to handle. He wrapped his arms around Merlin’s thighs, holding on, trusting, giving in.

Their gazes locked. Then, Merlin tightened his grip, and began to move.

It was exactly what Arthur wanted – unrelenting; too much for comfort; not stopping when he whimpered, when real tears welled up in his eyes; not slowing down when he gasped around the intrusion, when his jaw began to ache. He choked and wheezed, eyes trained on Merlin’s the whole time, begging him not to stop, pleading to _keep going_. 

This was what he wanted to take home with him. This was what he wanted to associate with struggling for breath in the water – Merlin’s face, shattered, destroyed, tears streaming down his cheeks, a tiny droplet of blood in the corner of his mouth after his teeth broke skin when he bit his lip, fighting for control.

This was what Arthur wanted to take with him from this horrible day, and he was sorry, truly he was, but he had to break Merlin for it, too, had to rip his control away. He freed one hand and slid it between Merlin’s legs, into the small space where his hips were angling away from the wall. He watched Merlin’s eyes widen in panic as Arthur pressed the tip of his finger to his tailbone, dug in his nail softly into the tender skin and scratched a line down, stopping at Merlin’s entrance.

Merlin gasped, swallowing a mouthful of water, his rhythm breaking, and Arthur would have smirked if he could, but Merlin’s cock was now sliding too deep in stuttering, graceless thrusts. Arthur gagged a little, sucking hard, and jabbed his finger into Merlin sharply, water barely easing the way.

Merlin came with an aborted, dull cry, his thighs trembling, as he spilled himself deep in Arthur’s throat, his whole body rippling with the force of it.

Arthur was dizzy, breathless, _heavy_ as Merlin pulled him up, pinned him to the wall, and kissed his ruined mouth, sucking hard on his bruised lips and making Arthur whimper. He felt hurt, alive, and _wanted_ – and then Merlin’s hand wrapped around his cock and stroked him just as he loved it, a little too hard, and Arthur toppled into orgasm, clutching at Merlin’s shoulders, falling as though there was no gravity and letting Merlin catch him with a kiss.

They stood like that for a while, clinging to each other, panting, foreheads pressed tightly together. Merlin pulled back a bit and then hugged Arthur tightly, holding on to him burying his face in Arthur’s wet hair.

“I want to go out with you,” Merlin said quietly in his ear. “I want to do the whole thing. Cinema, dinner, walk in the park – I want it. All of it, any of it. If the offer still stands.”

Arthur’s chest was bursting suddenly, as though he’d swallowed a giant bubble of laughter. He couldn’t stop some of it from spilling. “Merlin, you’re in my house, naked, in my shower, with me in it – and you’re asking me if the offer still stands?”

Merlin snorted into his shoulder. “Just making sure.”

“Right.” Arthur reached past him and tapped the water off. “Come on. Let’s find you something to wear.”

***

In the end, Arthur settled on a pair of sweatpants that had shrunk in the wash and hopefully wouldn’t fall off Merlin’s narrow hips and old Camelot football team t-shirt. Merlin dressed wordlessly, and Arthur couldn’t suppress a smile. With his hair curling wetly around his ears and the clothes hanging too loosely around his frame, he looked more like the teenager he really was than the mysterious stranger Arthur was used to.

His smile faded though when he noticed that Merlin was being unusually quiet. “Hey,” Arthur said softly, stepping closer to him, “you okay? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Merlin shrugged a bit helplessly. “It’s just that – I guess I’ve never been _that_ ” – he shot a look at the bathroom – “to anyone before. You – you trust me. A lot.”

Arthur’s heart made a flip at how shaken Merlin sounded. He tipped Merlin’s chin up. “Well, you did save my life, so it’s not unwarranted, wouldn’t you say?” Merlin pursed his lips stubbornly. Arthur grinned and kissed him. “You think too much.”

Merlin sighed. “Yeah, maybe.”

Arthur was sorely tempted to kiss him again, but his stomach rumbled loudly, reminding him that he hadn’t had any food since breakfast. “Come on.” He caught Merlin’s hand. “I’m starving.”

He practically dragged Merlin down the stairs, hoping that, if he moved fast enough, Merlin wouldn’t be caught up in the stupid magnificence of the place again. Arthur headed straight for the kitchen, because neither he nor Morgana ever used the dining room if they could help it. Just before they were about to enter, Merlin stopped him.

“What?”

“Do you think your sister will say anything? You know, about us – about—”

“Oh, you’re finally here, good,” Morgana’s loud voice interrupted him. Arthur pulled Merlin all the way into the kitchen to find Morgana sitting at the crook of the long breakfast aisle, with enough takeaway boxes in front of her to feed a small army. She was smiling pleasantly, which was an alarming sight. “Sorry, boys, I ordered without you. Started without you, too.”

“Come, come, Morgana, where are your manners?” Arthur teased, pulling up a chair. Merlin picked a seat across from him.

“You were taking too long with your shower sex, and I was hungry.”

Merlin choked, blushing. Arthur shot him a dry look. “The answer to your question would be yes.”

Morgana looked from one to the other, smiling gleefully, her chopsticks raised in a menacing manner. “We might have to keep you, Merlin. Arthur looked murderous before and now he’s positively glowing. I’m beginning to regret that he’s the resident cocksucker in the family.”

Arthur sputtered a mouthful of rice, blushing deeply, and glaring at Morgana, but Merlin seemed to have had enough time to recover. He sent Morgana a beatific grin. “Well, you can’t argue with raw talent.”

Arthur coughed and reached for a glass of water. Morgana was eyeing Merlin like one of her fencing opponents. Finally, she smirked. “No, I guess not. Do help yourself, though. I didn’t know what you liked, so I got one of everything. Thai, sushi, curry, fish and chips – um, you’re not vegetarian, by any chance?”

“No.” Merlin split the chopsticks and rolled them in his hand as if he did it for a living before grabbing the nearest carton, not checking the content before digging in. “I’m pretty omnivorous. Nomadic lifestyle would do that to you.”

For a few minutes, Arthur and Merlin ate in silence, both too hungry for conversation. Morgana watched them with a bemused smile, picking at her salad lazily.

“So you guys live here alone?” Merlin asked, taking a sip of water.

Arthur nodded. “More or less, since we were thirteen.”

“What about your father?”

“He lives in London. This is still his official residence, but he only shows up for Christmas.”

“If that,” Morgana muttered.

“Theoretically, there’s supposed to be a housekeeper slash governess to look after us, but Morgana and I are paying her a little extra from our allowances so that she’d only come once a week to look after the house. The rest of the time, it’s just us.”

“Yes, Arthur and I have pretty much raised each other.” Morgana glanced at her brother and added dryly, “Which I suppose explains a great deal.”

“Oi! We’re not so bad. Right, Merlin?”

Merlin grinned. “From what I’ve seen, you both turned out okay.”

“See?”

“But I’m kind of a freak myself, so you shouldn’t put too much faith in my opinion.”

Arthur sent him a reproachful look. “You couldn’t have quit while we were ahead?”

Merlin just smirked and continued to devour a sausage in a rather suggestive manner. Arthur swallowed; Morgana rolled her eyes.

“Aren’t you two adorable,” she grumbled in a tone that implied anything but. “So what about you, Merlin? Living with a travelling circus, it must be so... romantic.”

Arthur wanted to strangle Morgana really badly, but Merlin appeared unfazed.

“Not particularly,” he said. “It’s my father’s circus. He inherited it from his father, and, as I understand it, we’re sort of a circus dynasty.”

“Were you born on the road?”

“No. The circus was touring in Wales when my dad met my mum. They had – a fling.” His lips curved in a small, private smile. “She’d kill me if she heard me say that; I’m supposed to say it was a star-crossed love affair and songs were written about it, but yeah. Anyway. She found out she was pregnant after he’d left.”

“He didn’t ask her to go with him?”

Merlin shook his head. “My mum wasn’t the gypsy type. But she knew my dad would never settle down, so she didn’t tell him about me. I grew up in Wales, had a pretty ordinary childhood. Went to prep school and everything.” Merlin paused. “When I was nine, Mum died – a wasting disease of some kind. Half the village got it, too. They sent us doctors, but they couldn’t even diagnose anyone, let alone cure them.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said quietly.

Merlin nodded. “Anyway, my mum had apparently left my father’s details with a friend, and after she was gone, I was sent over to him, like a parcel.”

“It must have been hard for you.” Morgana’s tone was soft. “Leaving everything you knew.”

Merlin shrugged. “Yes, but in a way, it was better like that, too. Back home, everything reminded me of what I lost. And being with a circus doesn’t leave much room for melancholy.”

“How did your father react to seeing you?”

Merlin smiled. “He didn’t have a clue about how to be a father, but he’s a good man, and, fortunately for him, I wasn’t much of a kid by then. We had our arguments, but he treated me well. Better than a lot of people would in his place.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Can I ask you something? I don’t mean to offend or anything, but—”

“What is it?”

“How did you get so _smart_? I mean, how do you know all those things you do? It doesn’t sound like you went to school since you were nine. I’m sorry if I—”

But Merlin just smiled and raised up a hand. “It’s all right, Arthur; stop fretting. Caravans spend most of their time on the road – no telly, no Internet. There wasn’t much to do between tour stops but read, so I read pretty much anything I could get my hands on. You’d be surprised at how much you can digest when it’s your single form of entertainment.” He grinned. “And as for history and sciences, well. Dad didn’t want to send me to a boarding school, so he gave me a tutor.”

“He hired you a tutor?”

“Not exactly hired, no. Let’s just say this... um, guy, he couldn’t deny my father whatever he asked of him. He wasn’t too happy about it, either, but he couldn’t say no to my dad, so there we were. Kil’s like a walking talking encyclopaedia of human history, like all six thousand years of it. Dad made him trail me, and so he went wherever I went and just kept rambling on and on and on. The stories he tells, you’ve no idea. And I, unfortunately, have a pretty good memory, so it all kind of stuck with me.”

“Hetaerae in Pompeii?” Arthur asked, grinning.

Merlin groaned. “That’s nothing. After we covered the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre and Oprichnina, I had nightmares for weeks. Kil has a way of practically making you _see_ these things as they unfolded, the bloody bastard.”

“Kil?”

“His full name is a mouthful.”

“He sounds like a fascinating character,” Morgana observed.

“You’d hate him,” Merlin said emphatically. “Trust me. He always speaks in riddles, can never answer a bloody question without making you jump through the hoops first, and is a major pain in the arse. Just – no.”

Morgana giggled. “So that’s it?”

“Pretty much.” Merlin shrugged. “I left the caravan when I turned sixteen. I loved it there, but I wanted to go home.”

“What did your father say?”

Merlin’s smile was tight. “We argued. I left.”

He didn’t look in the mood to go into details, but Arthur supposed he couldn’t complain. He’d learned more about Merlin in the past hour than he had in all the weeks before that.

Morgana, obviously more adept in social interaction than either of them, changed the topic gracefully, complaining about Arthur’s footie mates and their grabby hands. Arthur rose to the bait, naturally, and they were off, diving perhaps more enthusiastically into the familiar rhythm of their bickering than usual, but that was their way, too. Besides, Arthur had had enough emotional upheavals for one day.

Merlin sat quietly, listening to them poke and prod at each other with an amused, tired smile, his ankle wrapped around Arthur’s under the countertop.

Later, after they’d watched enough telly to put them in a zombie state, Arthur allowed Merlin to steer him back into his bedroom and more or less manhandle him into bed.

“I hope you’re not thinking about going to the guest room or something,” Arthur murmured sleepily, barely able to keep his eyes open.

“No.” Merlin smiled, killed the lights, and climbed under the covers.

Arthur stretched languidly, sore after being thrown around like a ragdoll by a rabid waterfall. Merlin hesitated for a moment, then shifted closer, and slowly draped an arm around Arthur’s waist.

“Okay?”

Arthur nuzzled his shoulder. “Yeah.”

“I’ve never done this before,” Merlin whispered. “Never just slept with anyone. I mean—”

“I know,” Arthur said around a yawn. “Me neither. Merlin?”

“Hm?”

“You meant what you said before? About… wanting to go out with me.”

Merlin moved to kiss him in the darkness. His lips landed on Arthur’s brow, making him chuckle sleepily. “Yeah.”

“Good.” Arthur purred. “Then—”

“Go to sleep, Arthur,” Merlin said, his smile invisible but tangible in his voice.

Arthur slept.

***

Arthur woke up groggily in the middle of the night to the feeling of a cool draft sneaking under the duvet. He blinked a few times as the events of the previous evening coalesced in his mind into some form of sleepy coherency. He wondered where Merlin had gone, but told himself not to panic. Probably just for a glass of water, or a visit to the loo. Arthur turned his head at a quiet sound.

Merlin was standing by the tall French window, dressed only in Arthur’s sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He was a glowing silhouette, the delicate shade of pale of his skin luminescent in the moonlight, the lines of his body seductively smooth and precise.

Arthur had never tried to wax poetic about anything – he was rubbish at it, and whatever artistic comparison popped into his mind upon occasion, he never shared them for fear of being laughed at. But he wasn’t trying to be sentimental or clever when he thought that, posed like this, Merlin reminded him of those Greek statues he’d seen in the British Museum, with lines so clean, so defined, so youthful, that they seemed too perfect to exist.

His breath caught as he stared, not daring to move and risk breaking the heart-stopping beauty of the moment, and he would never, ever tell any of that to anyone, because it sounded silly, but it was the truth – he felt it in his bones.

Twenty, perhaps thirty years in, when Arthur would be sporting a beer belly, and Merlin would be well on his way to drying up, literally becoming skin and bones without the gleam of youth lending him flexibility and that ungraspable litheness, they would remember this moment – or Arthur would, at any rate. He’d remember how they used to be seventeen, always horny, utterly unable to keep their hands off each other. He’d remember how he used to exist within Merlin’s touch, how it was his truest way of knowing the world. 

They were utterly absurd, those thoughts – the assumption that he’d still remember who Merlin was, that they’d be together, _would_ have had been together for all that time, completely and utterly ludicrous. And if Arthur wanted it more than anything at this very moment, it was forgivable and easy to explain. He was seventeen, and therefore stupid, though not a complete idiot.

He went diligently about committing the moment to memory all the same. Merlin had one hand pressed against the glass; he was whispering something softly, his voice audible, but the words foreign, unrecognisable. Was that Welsh, or any of the other half-dozen languages Merlin seemed to be proficient at?

Arthur drifted back to sleep, lulled by the soothing, powerful sound of unfamiliar but compelling syllables rolling softly off Merlin’s tongue. He dreamed of thin golden lines shooting like cracks on the window from under Merlin’s fingers, glowing and beautiful and soon engulfing the whole house.

***

Arthur woke up to sunlight and warm, nuzzling kisses. He heard himself rumbling contentedly and craned his neck to give Merlin better access. Merlin chuckled and obliged, and Arthur couldn’t help but grin, and then wrap his arms around Merlin’s waist and roll them over so that he could open his eyes to the sight of Merlin under him.

“Morning.”

Merlin laughed and leaned up to kiss him softly. “Morning.”

Arthur blinked, because something clearly was out of place. It took his sleep-addled brain a moment to catch up. “You’re dressed!”

Merlin rolled his eyes and pulled at Arthur’s ear. “Well spotted, you.” He was wearing his jeans, somewhat creased but dry now, and one of Arthur’s old footie t-shirts.

“Why?”

Merlin flipped them over and planted a warm, lingering kiss to Arthur’s collarbone. “I have to go to work. My shift starts in less than an hour.”

“At the garage?”

“Yeah. …Hold on a second.” Merlin propped himself up on his elbows and peered at Arthur, eyebrows drawn together. “How do you know where I work?”

“Um.”

“Oh dear.” Merlin laughed suddenly. “You really _are_ a stalker, aren’t you?”

Arthur blushed and pounced at him in retaliation, which resulted in a half-hearted pillow fight and a lot of half-naked wrestling, until Merlin finally tumbled out of bed and backed up instead of diving back in. “I really need to go to work, Arthur,” he said, laughing.

Arthur pouted. “You just say that because you’re losing.”

“You keep telling yourself that.” Merlin picked himself up, grinning cheekily. “You also might want to take care of that.” He pointed rather bluntly.

“Bastard.” Arthur blushed again and threw a pillow at him. “Hey? Dinner tonight?”

Merlin froze for a moment, but smiled and nodded, before Arthur could shift into full panic mode. “Yeah, sure.”

“There’s a nice place around the block from the garage—”

“I know it. I get off at seven.”

Arthur grinned. “It’s a date.”

Merlin looked as though he was really tempted to steal one last kiss, and Arthur was secretly hoping he’d give in, but in the end, Merlin just shook his head with a rueful smile and ducked out of the room.

Arthur fell back into the pillows. It was going to be a perfect, _perfect_ day.

Morgana was in a good mood, too. She was _humming_ as she searched the leftovers for something suitable for breakfast when Arthur came downstairs. It was... basically unheard of.

“I slept well,” she said in response to Arthur’s gaping.

And okay, that was reason enough. A night of restoring sleep, uninterrupted by nightmares or visions, was a luxury for Morgana.

“Any particular reason?”

“Don’t know.” She shrugged. “It feels lighter in here. Kind of like after a spring cleaning, only – hell, Arthur, I don’t know. Just – I feel really good, that’s all.”

Arthur left it at that.

He tried to do the responsible thing and locked himself in the library, hoping to get some work done. It was going slowly, though, the thoughts of the evening ahead an inevitable distraction.

It wasn’t as though Arthur had a lot of experience where dating was concerned. He’d gone out with Gwen, true, but although those outings had ostensibly met all the criteria for a ‘proper date,’ Arthur didn’t remember either of them having a lot of fun. And he’d never really taken any _guys_ out. Sure, he’d put his fake ID to good use and gone clubbing a few times, but those encounters could no more constitute dates than a bag of crisps made a gourmet meal.

Merlin had told him that _he’d_ never been on a real date before. On the one hand, the knowledge was a relief, as Arthur wouldn’t have to compete with any past experiences. On the other, though, it was a huge responsibility – making sure that his first date was a great one and setting the bar for all future dates to follow.

It made Arthur break a sweat just thinking about it as he sat over _The End of History and the Last Man_ , trying to make sense of Fukuyama’s overly optimistic musings. He’d given up by noon, having scribbled only ‘ _Are you bloody well kidding me?_ ’ three times by way of taking notes.

The house was empty, Morgana having waltzed off to her fencing practice, and Arthur decided that staying cooped up indoors was doing him no good. He contemplated his wardrobe for an agonizing hour, simultaneously thanking heaven for Morgana not being there to laugh at him and cursing her absence, because, mocking and all, she’d have helped somehow. He finally settled on his club jeans – black and a little snugger than he’d normally allow himself during the day, but a far cry from being scandalous – a white V-neck, a dark grey waistcoat that he secretly loved and Morgana teased him mercilessly about, and a jacket. He didn’t look half bad, if he dared say so himself.

It was, of course, way too early to head for the restaurant, and Arthur drove instead to one of the Camelot’s poorer neighbourhoods, intending to check on Mrs. Cavendish. 

Back in the day, Uther had wanted Arthur to join the Cadet Force, so, naturally, Arthur had chosen Pioneering instead. He’d visited Mrs. Cavendish for three years before his studies and sports had begun to overtake his free time and another kid was assigned to her. He’d been a complete knob, though, much to Arthur’s irritation, and he still made a point to check on the nice old lady every other week to make sure she didn’t need help with the groceries or a leaking tap.

Mrs. Cavendish was having a tea party in the garden with her cats and beamed at him when Arthur jumped over the law fence with a sheepish smile.

“Arthur, my dear boy, so good to see you! Don’t you look dashing?”

“Not as dashing as you, Mrs. Cavendish,” Arthur drawled around a grin. “I could swear you seem younger every day.”

“Flatterer.” She giggled. “You’ll need to learn to be less transparent about it.”

“I’ll do my best.” Arthur leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Anything I can do for you today?”

“Well, there’s a small problem with the roof, darling, but I can’t let you at it like that; you’ll ruin your fancy clothes. Come – I still have some of my dear old Harry’s things in the loft. I think they’ll just about fit you.”

Arthur followed her into the house, noting the paint beginning to peel off the porch and the screeching steps. That new kid was really good for nothing, but it wouldn’t do to tell Mrs. Cavendish that. She took a liking to everyone – or, perhaps, was simply lonely.

Mrs. Cavendish didn’t have children. Her husband, a World War II veteran who was sent to the Falklands in 1982, had died a year into his retirement, leaving his considerably younger wife alone in their old house. Arthur loved listening to her talk about him, weaving the tales of war and real people. It almost made him wish, selfishly, that some kind of conflict would erupt right now, so that he could prove himself in the service of his country. It made him sad to realise that the time of heroes had passed.

In any case, it was much better than having to sit through _The English Patient_ with Morgana, fighting off sleep while she brushed away tears.

Mrs. Cavendish chatted away as Arthur climbed onto the roof to find the broken tiles. He’d learned everything he knew about household chores by helping Mrs. Cavendish around the house and was stupidly proud of his accomplishments.

Later, when Arthur changed back and was served tea among the climate-defying gardenias, Mrs. Cavendish gave him a sly look. “First date, is it?”

Arthur nearly spilled the milk he was pouring into his cup. “How did you know?”

She chuckled. “You have that look about you – the ‘I’m so nervous I might throw up’ one.”

“Sorry.” Arthur winced. He knew he had to hide his emotions better.

“Not at all, my dear. You shouldn’t be nervous, though. First dates never matter.”

“How so?”

“Well… If they like you enough, they’d still go out with you, even if the first date is a disaster. And if they don’t like you enough, not even the most perfect date will make them change their mind.”

Arthur contemplated this. “That’s... surprisingly reassuring.”

She laughed. “You young people always think that you’re the first ones to do anything. If you must know, the love of my life and I had a horrible first date. He upended a glass of red wine over my favourite dress and then cooked something with tomatoes – and you know how allergic I am.” She smiled reminiscently. “Good times.”

Arthur was confused. “I thought your husband took you to the cinema on your first date.”

Her eyes crinkled. “I’d been in love before I met Harry, my dear. With one of his friends, in fact.”

“What happened?”

She sighed. “He… was discovered as a magic user, you see. There was a court-martial, and, well, it was a time of war and he lied about being magic. He would have been shot, but Harry and I helped him escape.” Her eyes clouded with longing that, Arthur realised with a start, she hadn’t lost after all these years. “I’ve never seen him again; I don’t know what’s become of him. He could have come back after 1953, you know. He could have come back, but he didn’t. Maybe he’d heard about Harry and me. Maybe he couldn’t forgive.”

Arthur shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “I’m sure there was another reason.”

She blinked, as though only just remembering Arthur’s presence. “Perhaps. Anyway, that’s quite enough of memories for one day, hm? You’ll want to be going now, Arthur. Wouldn’t want to keep your young man waiting on your first date.”

Arthur blushed. He’d never told her he was gay, but apparently, he didn’t have to. He stood up, reaching for his jacket. “Thanks for the tea, Mrs. Cavendish.”

She beamed at him. “Call me Alice, darling.”

***

Merlin was late. Sitting alone at his usual table at _Bel and the Dragon_ , Arthur knew he was attracting a lot of curious glances. He didn’t think Merlin would stand him up, but he was beginning to feel nervous. Finally, he spotted Merlin walking in through the tall oak doors, looking around uncertainly.

Arthur let out a breath he’d been holding and took a moment to appreciate the sight. Merlin had obviously made time to change, because he was wearing a clean pair of jeans, stonewashed charcoal, and a bottle green shirt that did wonders to his skin tone and was a surprising offset to his eyes. He looked gorgeous, if still a bit alien in the prim Middle English environment, and Arthur swallowed, watching people follow him with their eyes.

 _He dressed up for me_.

He couldn’t get past the thought until Merlin was standing in front of him, smiling warily. Arthur stood up and kissed Merlin’s cheek, both of them stiff and awkward with all the eyes on them. _Let them watch_ , Arthur thought. He wanted them to see. Merlin seemed to have no objections, either, even if he looked—

“You’re twitchy,” Arthur noted, watching him peruse a leather-bound menu.

“It’s this place,” Merlin said, shifting in his seat nervously. “It’s so – posh.”

Arthur blinked. “This is basically a glorified pub.”

“Yeah, well. They have actual tablecloths, and they’re _white_ , Arthur. And you don’t have to go to the bar to order. They have a special person to guide people to the tables. And – I don’t know. I can’t help feeling they’re going to kick me out at any moment, if I touch anything.”

Arthur stared at him, questions twirling in his mind. If _this_ was posh, what kinds of places was Merlin used to then? Freaking out over _tablecloths_ , of all things...

“Nobody’s going to kick you out,” Arthur said. “Don’t be ridiculous. Now, what will you have?”

Merlin shrugged sullenly. “I don’t care.”

“Don’t you have a favourite food?”

“Not really. I’m used to eating whatever’s put in front of me. Didn’t have much choice... before.”

Arthur looked away. This was another topic for another time. He forced a smile. “All right then, here’s our quest for tonight. Let’s find something you like.”

“Everything is some kind of heroic deed for you, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely.”

***

A couple of hours of gastronomic experimentation produced two discoveries. One: Merlin was undeniably fond of cheese, seemingly of any kind and in any form. And two, though Arthur kept that one to himself: apparently, Arthur had a fetish for watching Merlin eat. Not just for the way he was eating, although the noises he made around a spoonful of cheese soup were positively pornographic – _and_ Arthur hadn’t heard them before, which made him jealous of a bloody culinary delight, and that was so not healthy.

What was worse, though – he really liked watching Merlin in the process of consuming food, and that was... Okay, weird didn’t begin to cover it, but when he caught himself daydreaming about taking Merlin to Jenny’s Inn that offered the best fondue Arthur had ever tried or even searching the house for the set they seemed to have somewhere, Arthur had very nearly panicked.

He wasn’t too subtle about it, either, if the increasingly bewildered looks Merlin was giving him were any indication.

“Would you cut it out?” he said finally, pushing away the dessert Arthur was trying to get him to eat. “I’m plenty full, Arthur, I can’t eat another bite. Jesus. You make me feel like a Joyce character.”

“What, moody and Irish?”

“Brilliant and poor.”

 _You_ are _brilliant and poor_ , Arthur almost said, but fortunately bit his tongue just in time. “I thought you’d like Joyce,” he said instead.

Merlin grimaced. “Great language, but mostly I think he was a pretentious wanker. I mean, I like the stream of consciousness thing as well as the next guy, but come on. Joyce didn’t even invent it; Chekhov did it first _and_ without making people read a four-hundred-page monstrosity.”

Arthur, who had tried to conquer _Ulysses_ exactly once and had gotten as far as the description of cooking the liver before he’d felt sick and had never revisited it, stared at Merlin speculatively. “Is this what you’re going to read at uni, then? Literature? Or English?”

Merlin looked away. “I don’t think I’ll be going to uni.”

“Why not? You take more A-level subjects than anyone I know, and you’re _bound_ to get good grades. Is it the money?”

Merlin pursed his lips. “Mostly, but – it’s not just that. Even if I had all the money in the world, I wouldn’t have made it in.”

“Why not?” Arthur felt confused. As far as he knew, money and grades were the only considerations. Well, and one had to pass the Tregor Test, but _everyone_ passed the TT, it was like a medical exam – one couldn’t _not_ pass it. Even if Merlin was asked to sit for an entrance exam, Arthur couldn’t _imagine_ he’d fail.

“It doesn’t matter.” Merlin gave him a tight smile. “It’s for the best, probably, since I wouldn’t know what to do with myself anyway. What will you be reading, then?”

“Law.”

“Like your father?”

“If I have my way, I won’t be anything like my father. I want to—” He took a deep breath.

The idea had always been there, watching his fearless sister cower in horror at the thought of someone finding out her secret; overhearing stories over the years like the one Mrs. Cavendish had told him today; encountering omitted truths in the history books, wondering what on earth was wrong with people.

He was born of magic, Arthur had discovered when he was twelve. But it was another two years until he put together all the facts and realised that his mother hadn’t had to die. If only the ban on magical healing had been lifted a year earlier, a month earlier, even. _If only_.

Uther had blamed Nimueh, a sorceress who helped Ygraine conceive but wasn’t allowed to help her through pregnancy. Uther was too lawful a citizen, and, since it was he who was obsessed with having an heir, he graciously forgave his wife for going to Nimueh in the first place. But any further assistance was against the law, and he forbade the two of them from having any contact.

The ban on using magic for medical purposes was lifted eighteen months later, but Ygraine had been gone by then.

Arthur didn’t want to talk about his dark family history on what was supposed to be a date, but once he’d started, he couldn’t stop. Merlin’s eyes were trained on him, ever attentive; he didn’t seem to be breathing.

“—and so I want,” Arthur said firmly, “to read law, and then fight for the rights of the magical community – I don’t know in what capacity, but it’s what I want to do. I don’t know if there’s enough magic left in the land to be fighting for, even, but it’s what is right.” His lips quirked as he looked down at his hands clasped on the table. “My father will probably disown me, but I don’t – I don’t blame him for who he is, Merlin. He couldn’t help it – he was raised that way, and it’s what he believes. But that’s not what I believe, and if I have to turn against him for it – I will.”

Merlin toyed with the stem of his glass. “Equal rights for all. That’s quite a platform.”

Arthur’s temper flared. Here he was, baring his soul, and all Merlin could do was—

“Are you done mocking me?”

Merlin’s hand shot out to wrap around Arthur’s wrist. “I’m not mocking, Arthur. I’m sorry, that was – knee-jerk. I think – it’s very idealistic, _but_ ” – his fingers tightened as Arthur tried to pull away – “I also think that if anyone could make it happen, it’s you.”

“…Really?” Arthur asked in a small voice, stunned to discover how much Merlin’s opinion meant to him.

Merlin smiled ruefully. “Really. You’re very – people listen to you, Arthur. They’d follow you.”

Arthur twisted his hand to lace his fingers through Merlin’s. “Would you?”

“With eyes closed.”

Arthur sighed, gratified, almost high from relief. “I really want to kiss you right now.”

“Then let’s get out of here. I hate this place; I have to sit across from you, I can’t touch you, and it’s – let’s just go.”

Arthur nodded and flagged down a waitress.

They had a brief fight over who got the check, but Arthur won, promising Merlin he’d get to pay when he’d be the one choosing the venue. Merlin had grudgingly agreed, and then they were spilling out into a surprisingly warm night, walking along the sleepy streets side by side and not talking much.

Despite his earlier heated words, Merlin didn’t make an attempt to become physical. With a sinking heart, Arthur thought that there’d be no chance of talking Merlin into coming home with him.

“I ruined our date, didn’t I?”

Merlin looked at him, blinking, as though Arthur’s words had startled him out of some deep contemplation. “What? No—”

“I really should learn to shut up about all that politics and stuff—”

“Arthur, stop it,” Merlin ordered, placing a finger against Arthur’s lips. “You didn’t ruin anything, and I’m happy you told me all that.”

“But you’re about to say goodbye, aren’t you?”

Merlin kissed him on the lips softly. “I’m sorry. There’s somewhere I need to be early tomorrow, but I promise you, I really enjoyed tonight.” He smirked. “I think I’m getting the hang of this whole dating lark. The next time we go out, prepare to be surprised.”

They stood in the middle of a square, kissing, until some drunken voice shouted at them to get a room.

***

That same night, Arthur woke up in the cold sweat of Suspicion. Was he too distracted, too damn turned on by Merlin’s presence that he had forgotten?

A flash of gold and the locked – the _enchanted_ – door opened.

A flash of gold between Arthur’s life and death.

A flash of gold – and Merlin’s eyes, wide, terrified eyes as Aredian had questioned him.

Arthur pushed off the covers and flung himself out of bed. He opened the window as he waited for his laptop to come out of hibernation, the cool night breeze soothing on his inflamed skin. He went into the bathroom to put some water on his face, because he wasn’t going to sit there trembling like a scared child. He’d handle it in a calm and reasonable manner, like a Pendragon would.

It was at times like this that Arthur thought of his shared gene pool with his father with gratitude. Uther might be many things, but he wasn’t a coward, and he never panicked. If Arthur could pick any one trait to have in common, that would be it, even though, according to Morgana, he had also inherited the ‘stubborn as a mule’ streak and the ‘explosive Pendragon temper.’

He googled ‘ _Sidhe magic_ ’ and promptly felt sick. Somehow, he had been so concerned with the legal side of being magic, mostly due to Morgana’s propensity to get into trouble, that he’d never actually delved into the magical side of things. Now that he had, he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

He quickly skipped through the whole history of human-Sidhe relationship, starting with ‘teaching the barbaric tribes to plant crops’ and ending with open hostilities after humans became too arrogant to peacefully share the planet. Arthur already had a cursory knowledge of that, even though he was pretty sure Uther would have balked at _his_ version of history. Arthur skimmed straight to the technical descriptions, wiping his hands on his pyjama bottoms.

Everywhere he looked, next to ‘ _Sidhe magic_ ’ were words like ‘ _extremely dangerous_ ,’ ‘ _extremely powerful_ ,’ ‘ _unbreakable curses_ ’ and the like. There was a short note on Cornelius Sigan, who was still considered one of the most powerful sorcerers ever to exist; it was said that he made a pact with Sidhe, fearing their power. Cornelius Sigan was someone whom even Uther treated with cold respect, the kind one would grudgingly give to the worst enemy.

Arthur closed the laptop and leaned against the back of his chair, his heart beating fast and steady. His explanation to Aredian sounded so naïve now that only the man’s own ignorance was probably the reason for him buying it. Yet Arthur had been so quick to suggest it... Had he already known then? Was his conscious mind steered by what his subconscious had already known but refused to acknowledge?

Merlin had magic. _Was_ magic. It was the only explanation.

Arthur stood up, walking dazedly toward the open window and leaning against the frame. The night was dark and cloudy, the sound of wind in the sleeping garden spiked with hints of light mist.

Merlin had magic.

Arthur shivered. Merlin, who’d slept peacefully in this very bed. Arthur thought of their shower encounter and flushed – _God_.

Was he crazy? Was it absurd to even think that Merlin – the twiggy, twinky Merlin who subsided on apples – was a mage powerful enough to break a Sidhe enchantment? Was Arthur going mad?

He’d always had an analytical type of mind and he couldn’t help the way facts suddenly started to add up.

The only book Merlin claimed not to have read involved magic. The only dates Merlin appeared forgetful of were those of magical rebellions. The bloody flying motorcycle – and God, how stupid, it should have been obvious there and then, because a trick like that wasn’t physically possible, circus or not.

And then there was the circus. Uther had forbidden his children to see such performances as he had forbidden so many things, but now Arthur clearly remembered why. Travelling caravans were known to harbour sorcerers back when magic had been banned. They travelled from country to country, continent to continent, exempt from local laws, doing magic tricks...

 _Fuck_.

He pressed his forehead against the windowpane, his thoughts restless. Had he been stupid this whole time, or was he imagining things now, a belated reaction to his clash with death? Arthur didn’t like feeling stupid, didn’t like being slow; Morgana had taunted him through their whole childhood, and—

Merlin had touched him. Everywhere. He had his hands all over Arthur’s body, played with it, caressed it, kissed it. Merlin, who was maybe not completely mortal.

Arthur wrapped his arms around his naked torso and shuddered. _Fuck_. All this time he professed his disgust at Uther’s intolerance for anything magic, but now the very thought of Merlin touching him was making Arthur hyperventilate – like that first night at the dolmen, when Merlin had both excited and unnerved him.

Magic wasn’t evil, per se, but it was a power Arthur didn’t understand, couldn’t grasp. He wasn’t a bad person – he wasn’t _Uther_ , for God’s sake – just because he didn’t like the idea of being at its mercy.

Or was he? Was he, in all actuality, nothing more than a pretentious hypocrite?

Merlin had looked at him with such undisguised adoration when Arthur spoke up for magic users’ rights. Was he going to hate Arthur now? Was that what he was afraid of? Why he didn’t tell—

Arthur shut his window carefully, closed the curtains, and went back to bed without resolving anything.

***

The light of morning made his night-time musings seem excessively ominous. Arthur stretched on the bed lazily, unconcerned with late hour. So what if Merlin did have magic? So did Morgana, and Arthur wasn’t afraid of her. He was even proud of her, he supposed—

Though not when she burst through his bedroom door without knocking and pounced on the bed, hitting him with a newspaper tube.

“Ow! Morgana, what the hell?” He demanded, and then, because he liked to gross her out, “I could have been wanking.”

She wrinkled her nose and flicked her wrist to open the curtains. The room was instantly flooded with glorious mid-morning sunlight. “Don’t care. You’ve got to read this.”

Arthur closed his mouth somewhat slowly, because Morgana wasn’t usually so brazen about her magic, even when they were alone.

She poked him with the newspaper again. “Go on.”

“Oh fuck, _fine_. Quit hitting me.”

He snatched the tube from her and rolled out what turned out to be a copy of the _Daily Mail._

_**A break from a secret laboratory that conducted ‘experiments’ on magic users. 32 people, among them 9 children, freed from what for some had been a 25-year captivity.** _

Arthur stared at Morgana, who only nodded briskly. “Read on.”

Arthur read.

_Sergeant Morris Fletcher, 33, was driving home to Trigrove, Camelot County, late on Saturday night when he ran over a big animal that had unexpectedly appeared in front of his car. According to Fletcher, the run over happened too quickly for him to be certain, but he thought he hit a cougar or a lynx. ‘All I thought was: a big black cat,’ Fletcher says. However, when he got out of the car to check on the wounded animal, he found a young girl lying on the road instead, one Freya Donnelly, 19, who appeared to be the victim of more than simply a car accident._

_‘I was cursed when I was 16,’ Donnelly told Fletcher. The girl turned out to be a shapeshifter – a bastet. She then explained that within a month of her being cursed, ‘the men in black’ captured her and delivered her into a secret facility near Trigrove. There, she had been held as a prisoner and a laboratory subject for over three years along with dozens of other people._

_It is worth reminding that, when the first rumours of such facilities had begun to circulate in the late 60s, the government had flatly denied their existence._

_However, Freya’s story was confirmed when Fletcher called for backup and stormed the facility the girl had led them to. The gates were torn apart by what appeared to have been a small explosion. The doors of the cells were open, but most of the captives were either incapable or too scared to come out._

_‘We’ve been tricked before,’ Melissa Adams, 47, said while being checked out by the paramedics. ‘They’d pretend to let us go to see what other tricks we’d do.’_

_‘I was captured before my daughter was born,’ a prisoner who wished to remain unknown said. ‘She’s twelve years old now, and this is the only life she knows.’_

_Most of the captives were in terrible condition, as stated by Dr. Lienze, the senior medic on scene. A lot of them were delirious, two clinically insane. All of them were listed as officially missing, excluding the children born in captivity. ‘That’s a lot of missing person files we get to close tonight,’ Fletcher said._

_It remains unclear, however, who was in charge of the facility. There are signs that the building had been stormed, which led to Freya’s initial flight for freedom. There was definite evidence of a fight that had taken place, most likely including several sorcerers. None of the laboratory personnel was discovered on scene, all of them appeared to have fled before the police arrived._

_Downing Street issued a statement claiming they have had no knowledge of the laboratory’s existence and promised a thorough and public investigation. It remains unclear, however, if the facility in Trigrove is the only one of its kind, or if there are even more innocent people held in captivity for nefarious purposes even now under the government’s ‘watchful’ eye._

“Well, fuck,” Arthur said eloquently, putting the paper away.

“You think?” Morgana was hauled in a ball at the foot of the bed, dressed only in boxers she’d stolen from someone as a ‘thanks for the shag’ trophy and a Hello Kitty tank Arthur should remember to tease her about later. Probably Gwen’s present, anyway.

Morgana’s eyes, though, were wide and completely frantic. “It could have been _me_ , Arthur. Don’t you see? If I were a little less lucky, it could have been me in that lab!”

Arthur stared at the paper. It wasn’t the nicest thing he’d ever done to tune Morgana out when she was in such a state, but he couldn’t help flashing back to—

_There’s somewhere I need to be early tomorrow._

Good God, Merlin.

_What have you done?_

***

By Monday, Arthur was half-convinced he was seeing things, but then Merlin stumbled into English Lit ten minutes late, looking like death warmed over and wearing the same clothes he had on Saturday night, though considerably more wrinkled.

“Mister Emrys—”

“I’m so sorry, Miss. I had a – I was delayed.”

Mithian cocked an eyebrow at him. “I was going to ask if you were quite well, Mister Emrys.”

“Oh. _Oh_. Um, I’m fine.”

“Are you certain? Because, given your general performance in my class, I can excuse you this one time if you’d rather be elsewhere.”

“I, um—” Merlin seemed a bit lost. “It’s not necessary, Miss. Thank you, but I’d rather stay.”

“As you wish. Now, back to our discussion...”

Arthur watched Merlin stalk to his usual seat two rows across from Arthur. He sat down, caught Arthur staring, and sent him a tired but warm smile. Arthur couldn’t quite make himself return it, torn between ‘oh thank God, you’re okay’ and ‘what the hell were you thinking?’

He was deliberately slow in collecting his things after class, half-hoping Merlin would fall back on his usual routine of ignoring Arthur at school, but Merlin was waiting for him, perched on his desk as the classroom slowly emptied out.

“Hello,” Merlin said, smiling, and pulled Arthur closer by the belt loops.

Arthur allowed himself to be towed in. “You look like crap.”

Merlin gave him a cocky grin. “But you like me anyway, right?” He pulled Arthur in for a kiss, but Arthur couldn’t bring himself to return it. Merlin leaned back, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Arthur didn’t mean to snap and winced. He stepped away. “I just – I need to get to my next class. I’ll see you later, okay?”

He walked away briskly, but not before he spotted a confused, wounded look on Merlin’s face.

Arthur clenched his fists. What was _wrong_ with him? Merlin didn’t deserve that. Whatever he was or wasn’t – and Arthur still hadn’t fully excluded the possibility that it was all in his head, that Merlin was just an ordinary kid with an aura of mystique to him – whatever power he supposedly wielded, one thing was certain. He had never harmed Arthur. He’d done the very opposite of that. He deserved better than for Arthur to pull away from what clearly was to be a comfort kiss as though he was disgusted by the idea.

Merlin looked so exhausted, so beat, so – _small_ somehow, like he needed someone to lean on...

Ashamed, Arthur retraced his steps, but the classroom was empty. Merlin was gone.

They didn’t have any more shared classes that day, and Arthur kept trying to catch a glimpse of Merlin in the corridors, but to no avail. He wasn’t under his favourite tree at lunch, either, although the lead-heavy drizzle that hadn’t let on since the early hours of morning was probably the reason why.

Everywhere Arthur went, people kept discussing the article, expressing all kinds of opinions varying from ‘ _Can’t trust the sodding government, mate. Lying buggers, the lot of them_ ’ and ‘ _Those poor children! I mean, imagine_ —’ to ‘ _So they herded a bunch of freaks together, big deal. Mind you, I hope they don’t just set them loose_.’

On any other day, Arthur would have been in the midst of that, arguing and debating, squashing a few egos and maybe noses.

Now, his only concern was finding Merlin – a concern that evolved into outright worry when Aredian stopped him in the corridor.

“You wouldn’t happen to know how Emrys spent the weekend, would you, Pendragon?”

Arthur could feel his jaw jut forward. “Yes, I would. He was with me. Well, he had to work on Saturday, but we met for dinner, and he spent the night at my house. Do you want to know what we were doing, sir?”

Aredian looked faintly revolted. “I think I can live without that information, Mister Pendragon. Carry on.”

Arthur hurried off, angry and nervous, hoping that if Merlin happened to run into the deputy headmaster, he wouldn’t say something stupid or contradict Arthur’s story.

It was a relief to finally spot Merlin across the car park when Arthur was finally done with football practice. It really paid off that Merlin was taking so many subjects.

Arthur sprinted off toward him. “Hey!”

Merlin glanced up warily. He still looked like it was all he could do not to sway. “Hello.”

Arthur dropped his backpack and grabbed Merlin by the neck instead, kissing him soundly on the mouth, pressing forward until Merlin sighed and gave in.

“I’m sorry about before,” Arthur murmured. “I was worried about the geometry test. I suck at trigonometry, and I just – I hate getting Bs.”

Merlin’s lips curved slightly, and Arthur realised, with an abrupt flutter in his chest, that he didn’t give a rat’s arse if Merlin _was_ Cornelius Sigan reincarnated. That smile was what he cared about; the way Merlin rested his forehead against Arthur’s shoulder, instinctively seeking comfort – those were the important things.

He carded his fingers through Merlin’s hair. “Hey, do you want to come over to mine? We have that quiz in History tomorrow, and we could – study? A study date?”

Merlin snorted, straightening up. “You’re kind of transparent, you know that?”

Arthur grinned helplessly and wriggled his eyebrows. “I have food.”

“Fuck you.” Merlin laughed. “All right then. I’ll follow you. Don’t you have to wait for Morgana?”

“She’s got fencing practice. Gwen will give her a lift.”

Merlin shook his head. “Those two are formidable enough without weapons; whose bright idea was it to give them some?”

Arthur shrugged. “Don’t look at me.”

It was a miracle that he had an accident-free drive home, considering that he spent the entire time with his eyes glued to the rear view mirror to make certain Merlin was following him – which he was, and Arthur breathed a little easier.

“Let’s eat first,” he said as they made their way into the house. “Why don’t you go pick something for us to watch and I’ll see what we have in the fridge?”

“Sure.” Merlin toed off his boots and drifted in the general direction of the living room.

Arthur spared a look at the mud-covered footwear, shrugged, and headed for the kitchen.

Contrary to popular legend, life without parental supervision didn’t automatically made one a good cook. Toast and eggs were probably the height of Arthur’s culinary skills, except for sandwiches – he loved sandwiches and made it a point to excel at making them.

He took out turkey and pickles, thinking about how Merlin’s shirt had seemed much more snug on him on Saturday and was hanging loosely on his frame now, as though Merlin had dropped a stone overnight. Better add bread and butter and see if Hilda had restocked those little croissant and jam things.

It took him about fifteen minutes to assemble the food and make tea. However, when Arthur walked through the tall archway into the main living room, the tray heavy in his hands, he stopped still.

The telly was murmuring softly, stuck on cartoons, of all things. Merlin was stretched out on the couch, one arm folded awkwardly under him, neck bent in a way that was sure to give him a crick and dead to the world.

Arthur sighed. He set the tray on the coffee table and reached for the remote to switch the telly off, studying the sleeping figure. He would have been more aggrieved, he supposed, if he hadn’t been half-expecting this.

He extricated a quilt from under Merlin’s feet and threw it over him, then pulled at Merlin’s arm until it no longer threatened to give him some killer cramps and rearranged him until he resembled something vaguely comfortable. Merlin didn’t even stir, compliant as a ragdoll, though by far too heavy.

Arthur snorted and fell into an armchair, pouring himself some tea and settling in comfortably with his history textbook.

He spent the next few hours, splitting his attention between the dates he needed to memorise and watching Merlin sleep. Arthur wasn’t a creep, but Merlin looked so – _unusual_ while sleeping. Without the veneer of brazen cheek that his waking self wore like a shield, Merlin looked younger and – weary. His features seemed sharper; there were dark circles under his eyes, noticeable now that his cocksure gaze wasn’t being a distraction. 

_Smoke and mirrors_ , Arthur thought, a tingling warmth spreading through his whole body at the thought that Merlin felt safe enough here to drop his guard like that.

Later, he would be certain that he had no recollection of exactly how it had happened, but when he woke up, it was dark, and Arthur’s face was pressed against Merlin’s stomach, a generous line of skin where his shirt had ridden up in his sleep. Arthur’s arms were around him, too, he was hugging Merlin like a pillow.

Embarrassed, Arthur propped himself up on his elbows and then sat up on his knees. There was a sticky post-it glued to his forehead—

_You look so adorable I could vomit._

—in Morgana’s showy handwriting. 

Arthur blushed, crinkled the note in his fist, and glanced at his watch – half-past ten. Some nap they’d had.

“Merlin.” Arthur shook him gently by the shoulder. “Merlin, wake up. Let’s go to bed, at least.”

Merlin stirred finally, and then sat up so abruptly that Arthur jerked back. He seemed to be much quicker at orienting himself, because it only took a split second before awareness flooded his features.

“Shit, Arthur. Oh fuck, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay. You looked like you needed it.”

“Yes, but we were supposed to—”

“Merlin, it’s fine. We can do that next time. In the morning, maybe.”

“No, I have to go,” Merlin said, still looking miserable, as he flung his feet over to the floor.

Arthur scrambled to sit up fully. “It’s late; you’re in no shape to drive. Stay—”

“I can’t, I’ve got this essay to finish – um, did we, um—”

“What?”

“Cuddle?” Merlin looked vaguely horrified.

Arthur snorted. “I’m afraid so. I won’t tell anyone if you don’t, though I think Morgana saw us.”

Merlin blinked. “That _is_ bad.” He pointed at the remains of the sandwiches. “Um – will you miss those terribly?”

Arthur followed his gaze and rolled his eyes. “I’ll go find a bag or something.”

Merlin gave him a sheepish smile. “Thanks. You’re the best boyfriend ever.”

Arthur’s whole body flushed. “Boyfriend?”

“Oh, um.” Merlin looked away. “Sorry, I just assumed—”

Arthur caught him by the chin and kissed him, sloppy with sleepiness and emotion. “Boyfriend’s fine,” he murmured, not ready to meet Merlin’s eyes, either.

When he came back from seeing Merlin off, Morgana was standing at the foot of the stairs, arms folded over her chest.

“What?” Arthur asked defensively.

“It’s like you picked up a stray.”

“Piss off.”

“Arthur. He’s most likely magic.”

Arthur froze. This was unprecedented. Magic users didn’t out each other, ever – not unless it was a matter of life and death.

He turned around and peered at his sister calmly. “I know.”

Morgana held his gaze before nodding slowly. “As long as you do.”

Arthur turned around and went to pick up his textbook. He had a feeling he wouldn’t get much sleep that night.

***

“Why do we never go to your place?” Arthur asked. “You live alone, don’t you?”

They’d been doing this strange dance for a week. Between renewed snogging sessions in empty classrooms and ‘study dates’ that invariably ended with them defacing some kind of flat surface in Arthur’s house, it was very hard to have a serious conversation with Merlin. Arthur knew that it was as much his fault as Merlin’s, because he didn’t exactly put up a fight when Merlin’s lips latched onto his jawline or his hand sneaked under his waistband.

Merlin blinked. “You wouldn’t like it at my place. It’s further away, and besides, it’s nowhere near as comfortable.”

“I’m not some delicate flower, you know.”

“Oh, I beg to differ,” Merlin murmured with that dangerous glint in his eye that had a way of giving Arthur a semi on the spot.

The conversation repeated itself a few more times with the same dissatisfying results. Merlin either evaded the question, changed the topic, or distracted Arthur with sex – sometimes all three. Despite the fact that they were officially dating and Merlin was the one who used the ‘B’ word first, he didn’t seem inclined to let Arthur any closer than he already had.

Arthur went out of his way for them to spend more time alone, to the point where his friends had started to complain – though not as far as to miss a single footie practice. He hoped that it would prompt Merlin to reveal his secrets, but all it prompted Merlin to do was to try and suck Arthur’s brain through his dick, and Arthur wasn’t half in doubt he was succeeding.

But Arthur was nothing if not a man of action. More importantly (and disturbingly, if he was being honest), he had a Plan.

It was Friday afternoon, and Arthur said goodbye to Merlin early, citing his tutoring responsibilities and some extra practice. Earlier, in the changing room, Arthur had nicked Leon’s keys, leaving his own instead. Leon drove the most unexciting car ever – an old dark blue Toyota Corolla that had zero chances of drawing attention to itself, which, at the moment, suited Arthur perfectly. He waited for Merlin to leave the roundabout and followed.

Somehow, car pursuit turned out to be less exciting than it was in films. For the most part, Arthur was nervous he’d lose Merlin, who kept speeding and dodging bottlenecks by driving between vehicles that were slowing down, ignoring the angry horns blowing in his wake. However, as they drove past Camelot’s borders, the traffic eased, and Arthur could maintain a comfortable distance without fearing that Merlin would shake him off by some nifty trick.

Merlin, apparently, hadn’t been lying when he said he lived ‘further away.’ Arthur’s eyebrows kept drawing together the farther north they got, and he became even more confused when Merlin left the motorway through a barely noticeable exit, turning into a road that led seemingly nowhere. Arthur crawled after him, staring around at fields of grass and gloomy willows. Finally, some kind of structure appeared ahead, then another one, and another. Merlin drove through the remnants of what used to be village gates and stopped in front of an old house – its ruins, really.

Arthur pulled over into the roadside dust and killed the engine, staring.

It used to be a small village or a farm, maybe, but it looked like no one had lived here in years. Arthur couldn’t explain it, because this wasn’t the kind of country where a piece of perfectly serviceable land would lie forgotten like that, but it did seem to be the case. He got out of the car slowly and walked toward the crumpling archway, attracted by a square of white that seemed to be too bright and out of place. Merlin had ducked into the house by then, and Arthur hoped he wasn’t looking.

The white square turned out to be a notice, torn by the wind and abused by rain, but still readable enough.

  


_DO NOT ENTER  
This area is under quarantine for outbreaks of inexplicable phenomena that could be dangerous to human life._  


It had an authorisation seal of the Home Office, and the date read October 22, 1969.

Arthur snorted softly. That would explain it. A curse, most likely, or rumours of one would certainly keep people away. This was one of the most conservative areas in the entire United Kingdom, after all, where mothers still taught their kids to spit over their left shoulder when a sorcerer walked by.

Why was Merlin living here?

As if summoned by the thought, Merlin appeared on the doorstep again, making Arthur duck quickly behind the gatepost. He peeked out and saw that Merlin was headed rather purposefully across the ‘street’ and into a neighbouring garden. Arthur caught a glimpse of an apple tree, and let out a sign of relief. Merlin would be a while, then.

The smart thing to do would have been to turn away and go back the way he came from. Merlin hadn’t invited him, after all. Barring that, Arthur could wait for him in the open, confess his transgression, and hope Merlin wouldn’t be too mad.

But his curiosity got the better of him, and before Arthur could stop himself, he left the relative safety of his cover and made a run for the house.

Inside, it looked even more ancient and unkempt. The floorboards were darkened with moist and rot, and the wooden walls had so many cracks that it was a wonder the whole house wasn’t whistling at the slightest gust of wind. Arthur looked up at the ceiling to find only a rusty hook where a chandelier should have been hanging. With a start, he realised that there probably was no electricity here.

How could anyone live in a place like this? This wasn’t a house so much as a shell that couldn’t even protect itself from the elements, let alone anyone else.

A staircase leading upstairs looked unsafe at best, but Arthur couldn’t stop now. He had to find out, had to get to the bottom of this. Each step was creaking something horrible under his weight, but he ignored it, determined.

…Well.

The room upstairs looked marginally better. The floor was dry and seemingly intact, and the walls were less reminiscent of Emmental cheese. There was also more light in here, mostly due to the large window – no glass, why wasn’t that a surprise?

If Arthur had had any doubts before, he didn’t now. Merlin definitely lived here. There was an old-fashioned bed in the centre of the room, pressed against the back wall; the sheets were a recognisable Ikea pattern, the cotton seemingly fresh enough. In the corner by the bed, there was a medium-size travel bag, split open and spitting out clothes Arthur remembered Merlin wearing. On a small table in another corner, there were some papers, what looked like a beginning of another essay for Mithian, a tome of Herodotus, and a thick candle, half-burned.

Arthur swallowed; his head began to swim. Almost reflexively, he took a few steps to his left to look into a bathroom, and froze in the doorway, gaping.

After everything he’d seen so far, he’d expected a mould-eaten basin of some kind – there was no way this place had actual working plumbing. He had not expected to see a huge spotlessly clean bathtub that could probably easily accommodate four or five people. There were more candles here, lined along the entire perimeter of the gleaming peach-coloured monstrosity; a towel was hanging on the hook by the door, modestly sized but impeccably ironed; the brass tap was glinting with superiority while dropping little sparkles of water: _blip-blip-blip_.

Suddenly, Arthur became aware of the unusual, eerie silence around him. The floorboards didn’t groan tiredly, the walls had stopped whistling – the whole house stood absolutely still, making the hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck move.

He had trespassed. He’d broken in. His shoulders were suddenly aching under the weight of his Transgression.

Without a warning, all the candles sprang to life, jutting out flames, shooting up heat. Arthur staggered backwards into the room and was instantly seized by a dark cloud hovering over everything, blurring his vision. He blinked hastily, trying to see through it, to turn, to move – anything. His heart was hammering in his chest, palms sweating, mouth going dry; not seeing the ‘enemy,’ not seeing anything, he felt vulnerable and defenceless.

“I can’t decide,” a voice boomed behind him – a familiar and yet a profoundly different voice, deep, earthy, with guttural vowels that hung endlessly in the air. “I can’t decide,” the voice said, “if you’re incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. I’m thinking stupid.”

Arthur strained to listen, almost deafened by the rush of blood in his ears.

“You are the son of one of the most hated men in the magic world, and you break into a house of a sorcerer – alone, unarmed, unprepared. Have you not been told the story of Bluebeard’s wife as a child? It was true, by the way. All of it, except for the part about the rescue.”

Arthur swallowed with difficulty, sweat streaming down his spine now. “I didn’t go after _a_ sorcerer. I followed you.”

“Did you, now? Turn around, Arthur.”

Arthur gritted his teeth. “I can’t.”

“Why is that?”

“You – you’re doing something.”

“Of course. How inconsiderate of me to protect my dwelling against intruders.” He muttered a word Arthur didn’t catch, and then the pressure on his chest eased, bright spots of orange and purple clearing from his vision. “You can move now.”

Arthur turned around slowly, his body still half-frozen, wooden. A gasp died in his throat.

It was Merlin – but it wasn’t. Clad entirely in black, skin paler than usual, a heap of black hair in tremendous disarray, and his eyes – his eyes were golden, impossibly bright and golden like those of a wild cat, alight with wicked, evil intelligence and predatory power. In the barbaric jig of candlelight, he was casting shadows every which way, shapeless, deformed, as though they couldn’t decide which part of him to reflect, scared of capturing the real essence.

Arthur swayed, the vision hitting him like a physical blow, his knees threatening to give way. He couldn’t breathe.

“So. You figured it out.”

“Yes.”

Merlin’s lips curved in the same kind of biting self-irony Arthur remembered from the very first time he met him, but it was sharper now, saturated with bitterness. “Don’t flatter yourself, Arthur. It wasn’t smart of you – it was stupid of me. And it was idiotic, positively _imbecilic_ of you to walk in here like that.”

Arthur hated that his teeth chattered as he pushed out, “I’m not afraid of you!”

“No?” Merlin lifted an eyebrow. “Then you’re a moron.”

He spread his arms wide and began chanting edgy, odd-angled words to the ceiling, his eyes burning brighter still. Wind rushed into the room, swirling around in hungry vortexes half-human in height; the house began to shake violently, floor jumping under Arthur’s feet like a hysterical racehorse, and he realised with an upsurge of pure, animalistic horror that the ground itself was shaking beneath them. Outside, the wind was howling madly, triumphantly – a storm was raging, the sky turning black, crackling with lightning bolts that seemed to hit around the house faster than raindrops.

“Are you afraid yet?” Merlin was still standing spread-eagled, looking straight at Arthur now, his eyes impossible – unnatural, wind tugging at his hair and clothes.

Arthur’s chin jutted forward, terrified as he was, as he straightened up against the onslaught. “No.”

Merlin made a grabbing gesture with his hand and a lightning bolt jabbed inside through the window, curling into a ball of crackling blue-white light. “What about now?”

Arthur stilled, watching the ball of lightning drift across the room as though seeking prey. His lungs were straining, yet he was afraid to draw a deeper breath, eyes glued to the hovering _death_ in front of him. The persistent, overpowering smell of ozone had permeated all his senses, sinking into his blood like icicles.

“Still no?” Merlin’s voice came quieter, mocking and seductive, and then, with another flick of his wrist, the ball lightning pounced on Arthur, enveloping his whole body. “Don’t move,” Merlin whispered.

Arthur could no longer see him through the blinding, sizzling veil. He could feel the prickling of electricity millimetres from his skin everywhere, its indifferent curiosity probing the hairs on his arms, at the back of his neck.

“One move and you’re dead. One move and you’re a scorched body no one will recognise. Are you still unafraid, Arthur? Are you really?

“I’m a _sorcerer_ , Arthur. I could kill you with a thought. Just one move – one deeper breath, and that’s it. Can you feel it, Arthur? Are you really too fucking arrogant, too bloody _self-entitled_ to feel fear? How about _now_ , you stupid prick?”

The liquid ball lightning was touching his eyelashes now, and Arthur held his breath, thinking that was it. He couldn’t hold on forever, couldn’t talk. He was pinned down and helpless and about to die, and that was—

Through the dazzling veil, he caught sight of Merlin’s eyes.

_Oh, for the love of—_

Suddenly, he wasn’t powerless anymore. His hands curled into fists, uncaring of any danger, and he stepped forward, heedless of the risk.

Merlin gasped and ripped the lightning bolt away from him just barely in time, tearing it in two and sending the pieces to leave scorch marks on the walls. His chest was heaving, his whole frame shaking. Arthur lunged toward him and grabbed his face between his hands, pressing their foreheads together painfully, staring straight into Merlin’s power-rimmed golden eyes – too close, just there.

“Why should I be afraid, Merlin,” Arthur whispered, pushing the words at him like bullets, “when you’re the one who’s so fucking scared?”

***

Merlin let out a sound half-caught between a gasp and a groan, a desperate, piercing plea of a mortally wounded animal, as Arthur grabbed him by the neck and kissed him.

It was a battle, fierce and biting, all teeth and tongue as they pushed at each other, tugging too sharp, grabbing too tight, the stinging taste of adrenaline making their mouths hard like sandpaper. Arthur pushed Merlin’s jacket off his shoulders, fingers tangled in his shirt, ripping at it impatiently; Merlin just grunted, too busy with the buckle of Arthur’s belt, his blunt nails careless as they dug into the sensitive skin.

Clothes went flying, ripped, torn, broken; Arthur grabbed Merlin’s waist just as the backs of his knees hit the bed, and they toppled over, with Merlin landing on top of him, pinning him down, as he straightened over Arthur on his hands and knees.

He looked wild and surreal – pale, lithe, impossibly slim, with finely defined muscles – a vision of coiled power, all windswept black hair and dark blue eyes with golden rimmed pupils, glowing, breathing with _supernatural_. A memory slammed into Arthur’s mind, flash-stark, a woodcut of an incubus in an old book – flushed with lust, smirking at his prey.

Merlin wasn’t smirking; he was gazing down at Arthur as though stunned that they were here like this – something very wanted and utterly impossible, yet somehow happening to the accompaniment of the storm still raging outside.

There was a moment of almost unbearable suspense as they stared at each other, the harsh sound of laboured breathing filling the air, and then Merlin swept down just as Arthur lunged up, and they rolled over and over across the wide expanse of the bed, mindless with lust, locked in a fierce, full-bodied kiss.

Their legs tangled, erections aligned, and Arthur’s hips bucked up reflexively as Merlin writhed on top of him, twisting his nipples in his fingers and biting the tender skin under his jaw.

“Why me, Merlin?” Arthur rasped, digging his fingers into the fleshy swell of Merlin’s arse. “Out of all people – you could’ve – that first day – why me?”

Merlin wriggled against him, making both of them groan, and scraped the column of Arthur’s throat with his teeth. “I don’t know. There was – there was something about you. The way they looked at you – the way they – you just – you walk into anything and _take charge_ , and that’s – that’s—”

Arthur stilled at the words and caught Merlin’s face between his hands, forcing him to look up. Merlin’s eyes were frantic. “Do you need me to take charge now?”

Slowly, so very slowly, Merlin shook his head. “I think I can – with you, I think I can.” He swallowed and bit his lip. “Arthur. I want to – I—”

Arthur nodded. “All right. I trust you.”

Merlin laughed, a little on the hysterical side, and bent over Arthur, reaching to grope for something under the bed. He pulled back, throwing a few packets of lube and condoms onto the sheets. “Yeah?”

Arthur kissed him. “Yeah.”

He stretched out as Merlin covered his body with his own, kissing his way down, his fingers, his lips, and – _magic_. That had to be magic, invisible, thin tendrils of caress on Arthur’s skin, tightening like ropes in sync with Merlin’s pulse, tingling sharp and delicious with every kiss as they swept over him from his hair to his toes, growing in intensity as Merlin’s breathing became more and more uneven.

It was pleasure like Arthur had never known, his eyes rolling back in his head with each new wave. His cock was leaking, weeping for release, hard and heavy against his stomach, right next to where Merlin’s face was rubbing against him, teeth nipping gently in a neverending tease – but more.

“Merlin, I – _oh_!”

A tight wave of pleasure rippled through him like an orgasm, almost but not, making Arthur arch clear off the bed, straining to catch the elusive peak.

“Shh,” Merlin whispered, and kissed him again, deep and wet, making Arthur grab at him mindlessly, losing himself in it.

He couldn’t tell how much time had elapsed before he became aware of Merlin’s strained movements against him, his arms stretched back behind his own body as he was –

Arthur whimpered. Merlin was distracting him with a kiss while working his fingers into his own body, opening himself.

“No, let me, I want—” Arthur moved against him ineffectually. “I want to see, Merlin, please.”

Merlin straightened up on his knees then, a delicious blush spreading through his entire body. Arthur reached for an open foil of lube clumsily and then reached around Merlin, fingers shaking badly, eyes drifting from Merlin’s cock to his eyes. Merlin nodded, and Arthur held his breath, pushing his finger in between of Merlin’s two.

“ _Ah_!” Merlin’s head fell back helplessly for a moment, and Arthur’s eyes nearly crossed because he felt it – Merlin’s inner muscles contracting around him, grabbing at his finger, _pulling it in_.

“ _Fuck_ , Merlin.” Arthur’s voice was strained. “I want to – can I—”

Merlin nodded again and pulled off, a light grimace on his face, as though he couldn’t stand to be so empty. He reached for the condom, but Arthur stilled his hand, an odd piece of something he read somewhere floating around his lust-addled mind. “Do you even need it?”

Merlin shook his head. “Thought you’d be – more comfortable.”

Arthur grabbed his hips, drawing his knees up to support Merlin. “Screw comfort – I’m clean. I want to fuck you bare. I want to feel everything.”

Merlin made a low rumbling noise, his hands a little clumsy as he spread lube over Arthur’s cock generously. Arthur gritted his teeth hard, trying not to come as Merlin lined them up and—

“ _Fuuuuuuck_ ,” Arthur pushed out as Merlin started to sink down on him. “Tight, you’re _so fucking tight_ , are you even—”

“Shut. Up,” Merlin gasped, taking him deeper. “I’ve done this before, Arthur. I _like_ the burn.”

White-hot jealousy exploded in Arthur’s chest, wiping out everything for a moment, staggering in its intensity. Merlin’s eyes flew open wide as though he’d felt it, and he stared at Arthur, shocked, slamming his hips down just as Arthur’s snapped up.

They both groaned loudly and should have stopped, but couldn’t. Merlin was rolling his hips, driven by pure instinct, small, uncoordinated, jerky motions, as though he couldn’t decide if he wanted to get away or get more or both. It was driving Arthur crazy, the impossibly tight heat around him making his vision spark with every tiny motion.

Merlin had fallen back, arching over Arthur’s bent knees, arms wrapping around his calves as he fucked himself on Arthur’s cock frantically, his face contorted in the pleasure-pain of it. His magic – his fucking _magic_ – was raving havoc around them, rolling over Arthur’s body as if it owned him, sneaking _inside_ him and spreading him open, pressing against sweet spot –

And that was it.

Arthur’s whole body was jolting, his hips snapping up, ramming his cock into Merlin over and over and over again, savagely – until Merlin’s head fell back, mouth torn open around a soundless scream, and he came with Arthur’s hand stroking him through it, painting Arthur’s chest in hot stripes.

Arthur felt close to bursting and lunged up and forward, toppling Merlin onto his back and thrusting into him once, twice, three times until he came, snarling into Merlin’s neck, teeth clenching, his whole body seizing, and everything fading out into a storm of white and gold noise.

***

Awareness crawled back slowly, through the mad beating of his heart and the feel of Merlin’s legs wrapped around his waist. Arthur blinked, pulling back to look at the body beneath his, as though not entirely sure that he hadn’t dreamed it all. Merlin was breathing hard, though soundlessly, and his eyes were closed, still obviously not quite there.

Arthur shifted awkwardly, disentangling them as gently as he could before stretching beside Merlin. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help it, some obscene curiosity making him forget every boundary of propriety or sense.

He couldn’t help but push Merlin’s knee up and look closer to see the reddened, swollen skin around Merlin’s entrance, glistening wetly with—

Without warning, without even thinking about it, Arthur pushed two fingers inside.

Merlin groaned, not a sound of pleasure, and tried to close his legs, but he was too sluggish still, and Arthur overruled him easily. “Shh, I only want to – just a little bit, sweetheart, I just have to see – I just have to—”

Merlin whimpered, but lay motionless as Arthur spread him out slowly, fingers digging in deeper, swirling in his own come.

“You’re so filthy.”

Arthur looked up, startled, to see Merlin’s eyes open, glazy but aware, and cloudy blue. Outside, it was raining.

“What would people think if they saw you like this? Arthur Pendragon, paragon of virtue, Head Boy—”

“I’m not.”

“—football team captain, helps kids with homework, teaches cricket, helps old ladies, so fucking prim and proper and better than thou—” Merlin’s lips were struggling to smile. “If they could see you like this, with your hand up my arse, rubbing your come into me, like the possessive prick you are—”

Arthur shut him up with a kiss, delighted to discover that he had apparently fucked Merlin half-useless, because his mouth was slack, his tongue heavy, and he could only moan dully in response to the gentle assault. Of course, there was the small matter of Merlin likely overexerting his magic, but blaming that as opposed to Arthur’s obviously supreme prowess was no fun.

Arthur pulled back, grinning.

“Prat,” Merlin murmured dazedly, rolling his eyes at Arthur’s expression. “I could still kill you with a thought.”

Arthur smiled and kissed the tip of his nose. “No, Merlin. You really couldn’t.”

“Don’t be so sure.” 

“If you wanted to kill me, you’d have done so already. You’ve had a few thousand chances. Hell, you could have just left me in Sophia’s trap and saved yourself the trouble.”

“Maybe I have some kind of elaborate, nefarious agenda.”

Arthur snorted. “Please. You’d sooner kill yourself than harm me.”

Merlin pouted and tried to roll away, but Arthur caught him and held him close, feeling his eyes sting and his chest expand, swelling with emotion so powerful he couldn’t handle it. He just clutched Merlin tighter to his chest and kissed him until Merlin drifted off again and for a little bit after that.

***

The bathtub was even more magnificent when filled with deliciously warm, bubbly water from an underground spring that Merlin adapted for his sybaritic purposes. They were both soaking, feet and ankles tangled, as they leaned against the opposite sides, floating leisurely.

“Never thought I’d say this, but my father seems to have a point about higher taxes for magic users,” Arthur joked. “If you can have this kind of luxury for free—”

A light frown creased Merlin’s forehead, an indication that he understood Arthur’s attempt at levity but didn’t like it still. “Not everyone can do what I can,” he pointed out. “And those who can should be very careful.”

Arthur raised a brow. “You seem to have no qualms about it.”

Merlin’s lips curved. “I’m a bit... special.”

Involuntarily, Arthur glanced toward the open window in the bedroom, the rain outside having turned into a light drizzle. “I’d say. Will I read about a freak earthquake in the papers tomorrow?”

Merlin winced, shook his head. “No, I – it was localised to this house. And the storm only went as far as where you left the car.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry about before,” Merlin said after a pause, his expression pinched. “You surprised me, and I – may have overreacted. Which doesn’t make what you did any less stupid, but, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” He bit his lip. “No one can know about me, Arthur. I’d be in so much trouble if anyone found out.”

Arthur thought about the skeleton of the house Merlin lived in, about the air of shabbiness surrounding his practically non-existent possessions. “You ran away, didn’t you? Your father didn’t let you go after you fought. You ran away.”

Merlin nodded with a pained grimace. “I had little choice.”

“What you told me and Morgana – was there any truth in that at all?”

“Of course.” Merlin looked mildly offended. “I just – I didn’t tell you _everything_.”

Arthur kicked his shin lightly in the water. “Go on, then.”

“It’s a long story.”

“ _Mer_ lin, if it _still_ hasn’t sunk in that I’m here for the long haul, you’re thicker than I thought.”

Merlin sighed. “Fine.

“My father’s name is Balinor, and he’s a dragonlord.”

Arthur tried his best not to let his shock show. He knew Merlin wasn’t lying, but if travelling circuses were considered a charming anachronism, dragonlords – and dragons – were believed to be extinct, had been for such a long time that most people confused them with dinosaurs.

Merlin’s expression was grim as though he could hear Arthur’s thoughts. “Ours is the last dragonlord bloodline on the planet. If I don’t have a biological child, when father and I die, that’s it.”

“…I’m sorry.”

Merlin shrugged. “Yeah. My tutor’s name is Kilgharrah. He’s a dragon, the last of his kind. I meant every word I said about him, if you must know. Imagine Gwaine’s total lack of propriety, Morgana’s brains, and your friend Kay’s dark sarcasm, put it all together, let mature for about three thousand years, and you’ll get Kil – the biggest pain in the arse ever to walk the Earth. He’s been tutoring me in magic and sciences, and he’s a bloody history geek, and he has this way of making you – see things through his eyes, watch his memories. I was there when Rome fell, Arthur; when they trialled Galileo; when they hung witches in Salem. I think I was thirteen, when he showed me that.”

Arthur wanted very badly to move over to Merlin and hold him, but something in the way Merlin held himself stopped him from acting on it. He tried to derail his train of thought instead. “So, how did it work, exactly – travelling with a dragon? I thought they were extinct. I mean, certainly, travelling caravans could get away with a lot of things, but a living, breathing dragon?”

Merlin smiled softly. “Kilgharrah is a tricky son of a bitch. Before he went green and rusty with age, he used to be a gold dragon. And gold dragons—”

“—can assume human form,” Arthur whispered, shocked. “I thought that was just legend.”

“Not so much, no.”

“So why did you – why would you run away from all that?”

Merlin’s expression clouded. “There’s an – observation – that magic is going away from this world. It’s false. More people with magic were born in the last twenty years than in the hundred years before. Most of them prefer not to reveal it; a lot of people actually fear their gifts because of the persistent prejudice. Magic may no longer be banned in most countries, but magic users are still considered second class almost everywhere.”

He dipped his fingers into the water, and the temperature spiked back to comfortably warm.

“There are certain sorcerers who believe that we shouldn’t wait patiently for the situation to change. That magic users should unite their power and _force_ the non-magical population to acknowledge us as equals, if not superiors. You see, Arthur, while people like your father are busy pissing off the Sidhe, there are real magic terrorist cells forming out there. When they start to act—”

He paused, before letting out in a rush, “Nimueh is one of them.” 

Arthur gasped. “What?”

“I’m sorry; I swear I had no idea there was a connection until you told me about your mother. I knew Nimueh since I came to live with my father, and I knew she was hell bent on revenge, but I didn’t know why. I think” – he faltered – “please don’t kill me, but I think that she was in love with your mother. When Uther wouldn’t let her save her life, she – she didn’t take it well.”

Arthur felt sick. “Go on,” he pushed out hoarsely. He _had_ to know it all now.

“Nimueh had begun building her cell years ago; she’s been trying to recruit me for about as long. She’s very determined, because I’m – well, I’m pretty powerful. She tried to convince me at first, because it’s not like I disagree with her on principle. I don’t think we’re superior to anyone, but I want us to be treated as equals; I want people to stop bloody spitting on the street after I walk past. Except I don’t believe in violence; that never ends well. I’d love to fight for equal rights, but not like Nimueh wanted it. Not through murdering innocent people and blowing up trains.

“So I told her no, over and over. She wasn’t too happy about it. She would have forced me – she can, I’m not yet eighteen, and there are spells that would have allowed her to bind me, but she couldn’t do anything while I was with my natural guardian, my father. In order to get to me, she had to get rid of him, and she was unwilling to wait.

“My father’s gift isn’t as strong as mine, and he never really honed it. He thinks that magic users are better on their own, that we shouldn’t interfere with ‘normal’ people. He was a soldier once, and it – I think it broke him, what he saw there, what he went through. He was convinced that living as outcasts was our best choice.

“I’ve always known I’d be leaving when I come of age, because I simply don’t agree with that. But when Nimueh started to try and kill him – freak accidents, mysterious ailments – I realised that I had to get out of there. If he was no longer protecting me, she would go after me, not him, and so I ran away. I’ve always been good at forging papers, so it wasn’t really that hard.

“We were in Australia back then. I had magic, but no money, and no real means of travel. Plus I had to cover my tracks so that neither Nimueh nor Balinor could follow. So I hitched rides, took odd jobs, anything to get me further on.”

He smiled suddenly. “I travelled with a pair of smugglers for a while – Tristan and Isolde, and the merriest crew of scallywags you could ever meet. Their ages are a bit off, or I’d think Gwaine was their love child. They’re really cool – I mean, obviously, they’re criminals, but they don’t deal with anything nasty, like arms or drugs. More like expensive booze and handmade collectors’ stuff.

“Anyway, they picked me up while I was neck-deep in trouble in Kolkata. Not that they wanted to, but – well, my art of forgery, and they needed to get their ship past the port security in Kulpi. It all went pretty well, though I really hate sea travel – I was sick for about a week or so. Still, it was all rather nice until we had a run-in with the Somali pirates. That was one trip to Africa I wouldn’t care to repeat, though at least nobody died.

“Tristan and Isolde took me as far as Morocco, and I made my way to England from there. I wanted to go home, to visit my mum’s grave, but I couldn’t; Nimueh was sure to be watching for that.”

He stopped for a moment, meeting Arthur’s eyes. “I – I didn’t lie to you, Arthur. I wanted to be more. I wanted a chance to be normal – to get an education, for goodness’s sake. I missed school, believe it or not.

“I chose Camelot, because it’s one of the most conservative towns where sorcery is concerned. I mean, you heard Aredian – people like him would still have me burned with no qualms whatsoever. I figured no one would look for me here; I’d have to be crazy to willingly choose such a hostile environment. I found this house, and – well, it serves me. I found a school and got myself enrolled. I was doing so well, and then–” He sighed. “You.

“I didn’t mean to get involved with anyone – too dangerous. I was odd enough as it was, being a newcomer, a stranger. When we started – this thing, I couldn’t even invite you over or anything. I tried to keep my distance, but you’re – you’re –“ He shook his head. “I couldn’t. And I certainly couldn’t let you die, even though I knew after that, I knew you’d figure it out.”

In the silence that followed, Arthur cleared his throat. “Yes, well. Took me a while. The secret lab thing – that was you, right?”

Merlin nodded. “I heard the guys at the garage talking. It was some sort of local legend here, apparently, that there was a secret facility hidden around these parts. And I know I shouldn’t have, because it’d attract attention, but I couldn’t just leave them there. And then there was you.” Merlin’s lips quirked fleetingly. “So passionate, so willing to fight for our cause – it made me believe that if you could do it, so could I.”

“You could have been killed.”

Merlin looked away. “It was close. But – those poor people...” His fists clenched. “It was abominable, what they had to suffer.”

Arthur observed him carefully, biting back his anger. “Doesn’t make you wish to join Nimueh?”

Merlin winced. “Fuck, no. Never. That would make me as bad as them.”

Arthur pursed his lips. “I’m not sure I’d be as generous if I were you.”

Merlin shrugged, expression gloomy. “I’m not a saint, Arthur. But I’d have to be really desperate or really angry to cross that line.”

The water was beginning to cool around them again, and Arthur started to shiver. He stood up, and pulled Merlin to his feet. Neither of them made to move away for a while.

“I’m not really used to relying on anyone,” Merlin murmured softly in Arthur’s ear, his voice suddenly small. “But now you know, and I’m in your hands. You can report me, and—”

Arthur squeezed him tightly. “I’d never do that. Merlin, I—”

Merlin kissed him, relieved and grateful, and it made Arthur a little angry, but he understood.

He spent the night with Merlin curled up trustingly in his arms, and that was worth all the half-truths from before.

***

With some kind of infallible, back-brain instinct, Arthur knew that he’d never again know happiness the likes of which he’d fallen into over the next few weeks. He’d know other happiness, maybe – a deeper, more important one, perhaps, if he was fortunate enough – but this overwhelming, ever-expanding joy, the mindless pleasure of being in this state, right here, right now, with these people, under this sky – this kind of happiness, he’d never know again. It was like falling into a pool of whipped cream – the real one, the kind that was beaten into it by strong arms of country women back in the day, with smiles and caring and sunshine and laughter.

Merlin and he had become inseparable. At school, they tried not to draw too much attention to themselves and kept up with their usual activities. But there’d be stolen glances every now and again – sneaky, knowing smiles of people who shared the same secret no one else knew, and felt connected by it, bound tighter than blood by that hidden shared knowledge.

Keeping their secret was easy as instinct, and every look made Arthur giddy – a reminder that Merlin would trust him, but it was also incredibly hard. Arthur just wanted to push him against the lockers and snog the daylights out of him and then announce to anyone with ears that they were going to change the world and win over conservative politicians and magical terrorists and they would do it together and it was going to be _great_.

In private, they talked and talked and talked. It was hard to recognise the reserved, tight-lipped, enigmatic Emrys in the bright-eyed man who chatted away about anything and everything, making Arthur laugh till he cried with anecdotes of his travelling days, or telling him about the other side of history that wasn’t taught at schools, or sharing with him his thoughts and fears and dreams.

Arthur’s heart would clench painfully sometimes at the thought of how hard it must have been for Merlin to be alone for so long – how lonely, how starved for human attention he must have been. But then Merlin would smile at him, shaking the mood off, and Arthur would remember, gratefully, ‘ _But he has me now. I’ll always be here_.’

“We’ll go to uni together,” Arthur would say as they lay together in post-coital bliss, spent and sweaty and unable to stop touching. “Cambridge, I think. I’ll read law and you’ll go for literature or history or something. We’ll have our own paper started and we’ll be rallying to end all rallies. Then we’ll graduate and form a new political party and—”

“Parties are lame.” Merlin would cringe. “We’ll do better. You’ll be a lawyer specialising in magical cases, you’ll make sure that the rights of magic users are preserved, and you’ll be on some kind of council fighting to change the stupid laws.”

“Okay,” said Arthur, who quite liked that idea. “And what will you be doing?”

Merlin was pensive. “I’ll open a help centre for magic users – like a shelter or a job centre or maybe a school. Fuck, Arthur, there’s practically no magical education available in this country, and I’m not saying I’m any kind of expert, but at least I’m not scared to death of my magic like some kids I met. Maybe I could help them...”

Arthur was grinning. “So you’ll be Charles Xavier, basically.”

“Oi! Fuck off.” Merlin laughed. “Did you know that Marvel started the X-Men series in an attempt to build up society’s tolerance for magic users? It was hardly even an allegory, but it worked for them.” His eyes clouded in thought. “Maybe we should make a film—”

Arthur groaned and shut him up with a kiss before Merlin progressed to suggesting they built a cinema empire. Not that Arthur had anything against that – not on principle, anyway (he’d begun to suspect that saying no to Merlin about anything would be the hardest thing he’d ever have to do) – but right now, round two sounded like a much more enticing idea.

Round two (and three, and four) had always sounded like a brilliant plan.

Arthur never had a mother who’d lecture him on the importance of finding ‘the right person.’ It was all girl-talk, anyway – girls were so scared of losing their virginity or whatever that they became obsessed with the whole ‘right person’ thing, blowing it out of proportion. Arthur had heard Gwen talking about it sometimes, imparting the knowledge on her less fortunate girlfriends that sex with ‘the right person’ was worth waiting for. She’d go all misty-eyed and blushing, and Arthur would look away and hurry out of earshot.

Girls like Morgana had much more sense to them. Sex was just sex – people were more or less adept in it, and that was a fact. Arthur had always thought that Gwen’s conviction that sex with Lance was the best she could ever have was preposterous at best. There would always be someone more skilful, and to deny that just out of loyalty to her boyfriend had seemed insincere at best.

Arthur had been wrong. He’d been so grievously wrong, in fact, that he wasn’t even above admitting it.

The connection that flared open between him and Merlin every time they touched or even looked at each other was unique and empowering. All that mattered to Arthur before was that he was having sex. All that mattered to him now was that he was having sex with _Merlin_.

They weren’t perfect and didn’t want to be. Both of them had generally lousy stamina so far, but made up for it by the close-to-instant refractory period. They had their rough moments and their tender moments and their awkward moments when either of them did something embarrassing or odd. It was usually Merlin who started laughing first, but both of them resolved into giggles soon enough, losing the mood but finding something better instead.

The Arthur who didn’t know Merlin, the Arthur from last summer, would never have laughed. He’d have died of embarrassment, probably, but he wouldn’t have laughed. He’d have blushed and tried to cover it and would certainly never have talked about it again, much less think about it. That Arthur hadn’t known what this Arthur was discovering now – if you couldn’t laugh with your lover, it wasn’t worth it.

But it still stunned Arthur, the _rightness_ of it, when he woke up in Merlin’s bed with his nose buried in the pillow to Merlin’s fingers probing him gently, stretching him carefully. It must have been going on for some time, because Arthur was woken by his own hips thrusting instinctively into the mattress.

“All right?” Merlin purred in his ear.

Arthur was too sleep-laden to respond much, so he only grunted and spread his legs further. Very soon, though, Merlin had him sweating and writhing into the mattress in what seemed to be an eternity of the sweetest possible torture.

“Get on with it, would you?” Arthur gritted out finally, all but expiring from frustration, biting the pillow (to his own horror) because it seemed to be what his teeth wanted to do.

Merlin’s fingers curled inside him, making Arthur wail. “Are you sure?”

He lifted his head and glared at Merlin over his shoulder. “If you don’t, I’m going to kill you. How’s that for an incentive?”

Merlin laughed. “Remarkably inspiring.”

Then – it happened just as Merlin was pushing into him slowly, when Arthur was struck with the sense of how _right_ this felt. The guy Arthur had tried it with before wasn’t mean or brutal by any means, but it wasn’t – _this_. It wasn’t this complete awareness of his own body, the tightness of his skin, the delicious dual sensation of pressure against his prostate and of being stretched – fuck, but Merlin was right about that, the very feeling of the muscle expanding-resisting-expanding was a cruel pleasure all of its own, but it was made even better by the stark intimacy of it, by the knowledge that it was _Merlin_ – that he could feel Merlin _there_ , like that, inside himself – it was overwhelming.

Then Merlin started to move, and Arthur abandoned any attempt at higher brain function, because the pleasure was building up inexorably, like a cascade, and he couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ stop it. Merlin made maybe half a dozen thrusts before Arthur shuddered and broke apart, their combined weight trapping his cock under him. Merlin wasn’t too far behind, and some would call it pathetic, but Arthur didn’t care.

He felt liquefied and poured back together into a new shape that was an old shape, really, but like he’d never known it before. He lay there, new and improved, and Merlin couldn’t stay still for a split second, straddling Arthur’s hips and kneading his muscles, leaning over to kiss down his back, rearranging Arthur’s limbs as he saw fit to kiss and caress him some more, and when Arthur finally turned over to look at him, Merlin was wearing a completely drunk expression on his face.

He stretched on top of Arthur, murmuring between kisses, “I love your body, I fucking _love_ it, Arthur – can’t stop touching you.”

Arthur knew what he meant, knew only too well, because he couldn’t stop touching Merlin, either, couldn’t stop longing for it when they weren’t. Touching Merlin was his new addiction, and not only in a sexual way – it was more than that. Arthur loved fitting his hand in the curve at the small of Merlin’s back as they were walking; loved playing with Merlin’s hair; couldn’t get enough of Merlin’s skin, the feel of it under his palm, as he kept on rubbing stripes and circles while Merlin was reading or dictating another essay. (Merlin dictated and his thoughts appeared on the paper without him ever touching a pen, a trick that Arthur found infinitely entertaining.)

They were often at Merlin’s now, just as they’d used to stay at Arthur’s all the time, but Arthur felt that this new dimension between them was too private, too new still to share it with anyone, even Morgana. He knew he was acting like a spoiled child, but he wanted to be with Merlin all the time. He resented it when Merlin had to go to work, jealous even of broken engines and cranky batteries.

They had their rare slow mornings, mostly on Sundays, when Merlin would be elaborate and tricky and Arthur sleepy and willing to allow him anything. He was shocked the first time Merlin had kissed him _there_ , but had no will to deny him, and what followed had led to a complete meltdown on Arthur’s part, leaving him in a twitching, whimpering, _useless_ mess, gasping helplessly into the pillow as Merlin fucked him slowly. He filled voids Arthur didn’t know he had inside of him, sating so much more than his body.

More often, though, they were too touch-starved and impatient to be alone, and often didn’t make it to the bed at the moments of more insane urgency. They’d pounce on each other the moment they were behind any kind of door that promised privacy, and Arthur would have Merlin on the floor on all fours before they’d so much as kissed, or against the wall with a hand over Merlin’s mouth to stop it from spilling the unimaginably filthy words that had a tendency to short-circuit his brain. Later, Arthur would have him again – slower, methodical, meticulous, because he couldn’t go without, because he _had to_.

Satisfied for a moment, with the edge taken off – just barely, always just barely – they’d sprawl on Merlin’s bed or curl up on Arthur’s couch and talk or watch films or quiz each other in preparation for tests at school.

Arthur loved staying at Merlin’s house, which still seemed like a treasure island to him. He always had to bring food, because Merlin forgot – he had a healthy appetite, but he could simply _forget to have a meal_ in the first place if he was busy doing something, which was always. It made Arthur despair a little of Merlin’s inability to take care of himself.

The first time Arthur had spent the night, he was scared half to death by a loud flapping of wings just as he sank into sleep and bright amber eyes blinking at him through the darkness. He most certainly _had not_ shrieked like a girl.

“Calm down, it’s just Archimedes,” Merlin had laughed.

It turned out that Merlin had adopted an owl, or perhaps it was the other way around. Merlin had allowed it to hunt the house for mice. He’d peered at Arthur with a vaguely disconcerted look on his face. “Don’t tell Gwen, yeah?”

Arthur just stared. On the days that followed, it was quickly established that he and Archimedes (Merlin _definitely_ had some weird fetish for ancient Greece) pretty much hated each other. The blasted thing had snapped at Arthur’s fingers when Arthur tried to feed him a cracker, and Arthur might have accidentally pushed him out of the window at some point, which led to a lot of really loud squealing and indignant fluttering of wings. The next night, Arthur awoke because a dead mouse was dropped on his chest, and Merlin couldn’t even give him a proper blowjob to make up for it because he couldn’t stop laughing.

It was a weird kind of living they had – too adult for teens, too childish for adults. Somewhere at the back of his mind, Arthur had probably _suspected_ that their cosy little bubble, filled with sex endorphins and awkwardly cute domestics, would pop sooner or later.

He just didn’t know it would happen like this.

***

Merlin was still reluctant to socialise much with others, but Arthur was slowly pulling him out of his shell and into his circle. That he’d agreed to come to the traditional barbecue party that the football team hosted every year for their WAG – officially, unofficially – for anyone they wanted to see there – was a huge sign of progress.

It was way into November, but it was an extraordinarily warm fall, even for Camelot that was somewhat of a meteorological anomaly. The day was bright and cloudless, the air translucent and crisp, warming quickly as the sun went up. Their usual spot for the event – a field at the end of the Old Road (the street had had a name originally, but no one cared to remember) – was as welcoming as ever.

The team had been split in two and staged a mock game for the benefit of their audience, using all kinds of tactics to both score and elicit more laughs. Arthur ran around cheerful and happy, his body singing with the thrill of physical exertion, a broad smile on his face.

Gwaine tackled him to the ground and grabbed the ball with his hands. “They call it soccer in America, Princess!”

“It’s the other way around, you moron,” Arthur retorted, but laughed, sitting up to watch Gwaine sprinting off with the ball, only to be shot down by Percy rugby-style.

Arthur glanced to where Merlin was sprawled on the grass next to Gwen, talking with his hands excitedly, seemingly deriving a great deal of pleasure in making her tear up with laughter. Lance, ever the do-gooder, was tending to the grill with the help of a sour-looking Elyan, who kept sneaking longing glances at the field. Morgana was sunbathing, removing her translucent shirt to reveal a very daring bikini at strategic intervals and then putting it on again, which led to a lot of tripping and falling on the players’ parts. Arthur rolled his eyes at his sister’s antics, but he couldn’t help a stray surge of pride, too. Morgana was a born manipulator, but there was no denying that she was magnificent at it.

The game was about to finish; Percy’s cousin Drea, the acting referee, was about to blow the final whistle, declaring the victory of Team Debauchery (because Arthur felt playful) over Team Sex Fiends (because Gwaine was unimaginative), when a lonely figure appeared from the remnants of the old stands, heading straight toward them.

“What the fuck,” Gwaine muttered, jogging up to Arthur. “Is that _Valiant_?”

Arthur stared. It was indeed Valiant crossing the field at a brisk, efficient pace, like a missile set on target. It didn’t make any sense – he certainly wasn’t invited, and if he wanted to crash the party, he wouldn’t have come alone. He walked straight into the game, heedless of people trying to call out to him rather rudely, slicing through the chaotic assembly of players like a knife through butter.

Then someone screamed:

“GUN!”

– and the field erupted in chaos.

Several things happened in quick succession. Leon, Lionel, and Kay, who were all closest, tried to wrestle the weapon out of Valiant’s hand, but were knocked back before they could even touch him, as though he was surrounded by an invisible shield. In the background, the girls were screaming – Arthur could hear Morgana shouting something at him, urgency and annoyance in her voice, but the words didn’t penetrate.

Valiant was close enough now for Arthur to be able to see the hungry gleam of a Colt Anaconda, its thick, polished barrel staring straight between Arthur’s eyes. The look Valiant was wearing was vacant, his eyes muddy, as though filled with sand.

He was enchanted – that was what Morgana was trying to tell him. He was enchanted, and Arthur couldn’t hope to reason with him. He had to run – except there was no time.

Gwaine jumped in front of him, and Arthur pushed him out of the way, tripping him at the same time, with no pangs of guilt whatsoever. Gwaine’s curses faded into white noise as Arthur stepped forward, meeting Valiant head-on, his strangely steady pulse the only sound he could still hear.

Time stretched like a rubber band, slowing down, and Arthur couldn’t even guess who was behind the attack this time – Uther had made so many enemies that such conjecture seemed pointless. Morgana had explained to him how compulsion worked once, and Arthur remembered enough to realise that Valiant was probably an easy target – he already hated Arthur, was already more than a bit unstable. It wouldn’t have been a hardship to push him just that little bit further on and seal the single thought in his head. Someone must have gotten to him – someone who hated his father or one of those magical radicals Merlin had warned him about. Arthur still had that stretched-out, split second to think that Merlin wouldn’t get to gloat and say ‘I told you so’—

And then Valiant fired.

He fired. And fired again. And again. And again, until the whole cartridge was discharged straight in Arthur’s face.

None of the bullets reached him. They disappeared without a trace into a thin, glimmering veil, only visible as a shimmer when the projectiles had hit it. It absorbed them all, swelling like a gigantic soap bubble, and then exploded in a bright flash, knocking both Arthur and Valiant off their feet.

Time had resumed its normal run abruptly, crushing a dazed, disoriented Arthur with a flood of sounds and light. He sat up, blinking, dizzy, to see Valiant knocked out cold on the grass before him and everyone staring—

Merlin hadn’t had the time to move far from his spot. He was standing with his hand still outstretched toward the field, gold fading quickly, but not quickly enough from his eyes. His expression was—

Arthur tried to reach for him, made some kind of noise, and that seemed to break the spell. Everyone started moving and talking at the same time, people rushing to check on Valiant, to grab his gun, to shout at Arthur if he was all right.

None of it mattered, none of it even registered. All Arthur had eyes for was Merlin, who blinked and swayed as though coming out of a trance, then turned on his heel and ran.

“Oh _fuck_ , no, you don’t.”

Arthur sprang to his feet suddenly, chasing after him, snarling at the crowd of concerned friends who were all inadvertently detaining him. Arthur wanted to howl in frustration when he saw that his car was trapped between others that would have to be moved before he could. The taillights of Merlin’s motorbike were already a smudged line along the road.

“Arthur!”

He turned and snatched something thrown at him from the air reflexively. Keys.

“Take my car,” Leon said, pushing him with a hand on his shoulder. “Go!”

Somehow, this was the most bewildering thing, and Arthur frowned in confusion. “But I thought you didn’t approve—”

Leon’s expression softened. “He saved your life twice now; that’s all I care about.”

“But—”

“And for what it’s worth, I’ve never seen you happier.” Leon’s fingers tightened on his shoulder. “We’ll handle things here. Go get him.”

Arthur’s throat constricted painfully. “Thanks, Leon.”

Leon just nodded, jogging back to where Gwaine and Kay were busy quieting down hysterics and taking everything under control.

***

When Arthur stormed into Merlin’s bedroom in his ruin of a house, he saw exactly what he’d been dreading to see.

Merlin was packing.

He moved around the room, from object to object, snatching things in no particular order and stuffing them into his battered travel bag. He didn’t spare Arthur a single glance, even though he had to be aware of his presence.

“What are you doing?” Arthur demanded, even though it was obvious. “Merlin—”

“What does it look like I’m doing, Arthur?” Merlin snapped. “I’m leaving.”

Arthur watched him for a few moments in silence, anger filling him slowly, until he was shaking with it.

“So that’s it? You just – pack up and go?”

“Yeah. That’s it.”

“Just because some people know now?”

Merlin halted, staring at him incredulously. “ _Some people_? Arthur, the whole town will know by tomorrow. Nimueh will know in a couple days, tops. How long do you think it’ll take her to put two and two together? In case I didn’t make it clear, Arthur, she’s sharp – practically obsidian.”

Arthur bristled. “So that’s your solution? Run like a hunted animal?”

“You have a better option? I’m listening.”

“Damn right I have a better option. You make a stand and you fight for it. But that’s assuming, of course, you have something worth fighting for.”

Merlin stilled, looking at him with a pained expression. “Don’t do this, Arthur. Don’t make this about us.”

“It _is_ about us, Merlin! It’s _all_ about us!”

“I’m trying to protect you!”

“By turning tail? Fat lot of good that’ll do me the next time they come after me!”

Merlin reached into a desk drawer abruptly, fished something out, and shoved it at Arthur. It was, of all the ridiculous things, jewellery – a small silver medallion in the form of an oak. “I put a protection spell on your house, a good one. Nothing can touch you there. Take this, wear it on your person at all times – a pendant, a bracelet, anything. It’ll deflect most charms—”

“I don’t want it.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“I said, _I don’t want it_ ,” Arthur snarled and knocked the amulet out of Merlin’s hand.

Merlin glowered at him, his eyes crackling with gold, and for a moment Arthur thought, hopefully, that Merlin would lash out. But after a beat, Merlin pulled back and shrugged, angry but resolute. “Whatever.”

“I’m not helping you alleviate your conscience by wearing a stupid broach.”

“I really don’t care, Arthur. Be as stupid as you want; you’re your own man.”

“What about our plans? What about everything we talked about? You’re just going to walk away—”

“Walk away from what?” Merlin snapped. “Our plans were air castles, Arthur. I’d never make it to Cambridge – they prefer to fill their magic quota with people who can do card tricks and like to wear pointy hats. What do you think they’d do after I take the Tregor Test and they’d see my magical potential? Something tells me I wouldn’t be there for the welcoming tour. For God’s sake, Arthur, wake the _fuck_ up! Do you think after I revealed my magic today I’d be allowed to so much as stay at your school? I can just imagine what Aredian would—”

“Then you fight Aredian! Fight whoever he brings with him, because expelling you would be unlawful, Merlin. It would go against their own rules—”

Merlin’s harsh, biting laugh interrupted him. “Of course. Because in the sunny, rainbow-filled world of Arthur Pendragon, people always play by the rules and bad things don’t happen to people who don’t deserve it.”

“Fuck you,” Arthur spat. “Just because you’re too much of a coward to stay and fight—”

“And what would _you_ know about fighting?” Merlin cut in scathingly. “You never had to fight for anything in your whole fucking life, Arthur! You’ve always had everything handed to you on a silver platter – and I’m happy for you, really I am, but don’t you fucking _dare_ lecturing me about fighting!”

“And I suppose constantly running away makes you a bloody expert?”

“No,” Merlin replied. “But it keeps people like you alive.”

Arthur watched him struggle with the bag’s zipper, jerking at it, muttering curses under his breath. He stepped forward before he could think about it and batted away Merlin’s fingers impatiently, closing the bag for him. Both of them stilled, not looking at each other.

“Thanks,” Merlin breathed out at last. He picked up the bag slowly, swinging it over his shoulder, and headed for the door, his steps reluctant, halting.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Arthur asked softly. “You’ve known from the start you wouldn’t stay. That’s why you didn’t want to go out with me. That’s why you told me – not to fall in love with you.”

Merlin fiddled with a clasp; didn’t answer.

“Merlin.” Arthur’s voice broke over the name, and Merlin looked at him. “What if I told you I didn’t listen?”

Merlin’s shoulders sagged as though he suddenly became aware of the weight he’d hoisted upon them.

Arthur stood silently, barely breathing. Maybe Merlin was right and Arthur was a fighter who’d seen no battles, but he wasn’t used to begging, either. He didn’t know what he was doing now, only that his chest was aching as if he’d run a marathon, and that he’d played all his cards and didn’t have a single one left to give.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin whispered, and then he walked out.

Arthur stayed alone in the stripped room that looked somehow more uninhabitable than ever. His knees gave at the sound of the entrance door flapping in the wind, and he sank down onto the bed, sitting on the rumpled sheets that still smelled like Merlin – like both of them, actually.

He heard the motorbike engine roar, coming to life, but forbade himself to go to the window and watch.

When the sound faded in the distance and could be held there no longer even by the most determined of imaginations, Arthur reached toward the discarded piece of silver glinting timidly on the floor. He picked it up, wincing as though touching it hurt, and put it into the pocket of his football shorts.

Then he left the house, never to come back.

***

Arthur’s first stop was Cardiff. Not that he’d planned it this way or that he even had a plan to begin with – Arthur had come home after a talk with Annis, packed a small bag, kissed Morgana, said ‘See you in a week,’ and drove west.

Cardiff seemed like as good a place for a stop as any. Drawn in by the sight of the sea, Arthur left the car near Harbour Drive, and walked and walked till his feet were sore. The sun had long since set, and he still kept walking, further from the bay and into the labyrinth of unfamiliar streets.

He wasn’t looking for a tattoo parlour, but as he came across one, he stopped just the same. Arthur stepped over the threshold, blinking at the murky, shifting light.

“You’ve an ID to go with that pretty face, kid?” a tall woman with a harsh northern accent asked, glancing up.

“Sure.” Arthur pulled out his wallet and placed four fifty pound notes on the counter.

The woman glanced at the notes sceptically, before sizing Arthur up once again. She must have found what she was looking for, because she collected the money and nodded. “So how can I help you... James? Or is it Matthew?”

“Whatever,” Arthur said, stuffing the wallet back into his pocket and pulling out a silver pendant instead. “I want a tat. This one.”

She leaned closer, studying the pendant. She didn’t touch it, though. “There’s a lot of detail.”

“You can’t do it?”

She scoffed. “Matrosova can do anything.”

Arthur could only assume she meant herself. Trying not to think that he was about to submit himself to someone who spoke of themselves in third person, he thought instead that the name – or nickname – pulled her out of Scandinavia and placed her somewhere closer to the Balkans.

“Just saying, it’s going to hurt. Something easier for a first tat, perhaps—”

Arthur cut her off. “I want this one.” He wasn’t going to have a second one or a third one, and pain didn’t matter. He wanted this.

She shrugged. “As you wish. Follow me.”

He followed her into the work room, looking around without much curiosity. Arthur was aware that he was supposed to be checking for sanitary conditions, but, in the strange state of mind he was in, he found he didn’t care.

“Where do you want it?” Matrosova asked.

Arthur turned around. “On my chest. Over my heart.”

She rolled her eyes, but spared him the reminder of exactly how much it was going to hurt. “Girlfriend, huh?”

Arthur didn’t answer, watching her sterilise the gun in the autoclave.

It did hurt. Arthur felt mildly surprised, because he’d accidentally caught his foot with the car door yesterday and had barely felt it. But thin needles piercing his skin – oh yes, it hurt all right, but the pain was strange, sharp yet simultaneously dulling his other senses. It carried him, made him ride the stinging edge, as his mind drifted and wandered.

He’d gone home after Merlin had left to find Morgana working herself into a frenzy. Valiant had come around and talked, and it turned out that he’d been sent by Aredian. The deputy headmaster had apparently decided that society was becoming too lax about magic, that it needed to be reminded of its threat, and that people like Uther Pendragon might need fresh motivation to fuel their crusade. Aredian had kept a pet sorcerer, Edwin something, who he’d blackmailed into helping him to kill Arthur in some spectacular and blatantly supernatural way.

‘Magic bullets,’ Morgana had told him, trembling. Oh, Arthur. Had even one of them hit you...’

The police were informed, Annis was informed, and, after it turned out that Aredian had also been draining the Institute’s funds, the headmistress was quite beside herself.

‘The bastard ran,’ she’d told Arthur, all but spitting in her anger. ‘He bloody ran, like a rat.’ She’d scowled at Arthur. ‘It’s a good thing you’re tough, Pendragon. Under normal circumstances, I’d be dealing with a whining mother wanting to hide you under her skirt for a week—’

‘I’ll take it,’ Arthur had said, ignoring the unhappy surprise on Annis’s face. ‘And you can leave a message with my father, if you wish, Headmistress, but we both know it’ll be a while till he picks up the phone.’

‘Where will you go?’ Morgana had asked, but Arthur didn’t know what to tell her. He needed time – a few days before he’d have to go back and at the very least _pretend_ to care about football and his grades.

Maybe it would have hurt a tiny bit less had Merlin been wrong, but he hadn’t. That was the worst part – Arthur understood why he had to go. He wished he didn’t, he wished he could just go on throwing tantrums like a spoiled child, but that would be selfish, just as demanding that Merlin stay had been. Arthur had no right to ask that of him.

He thought about Leon, about Gwaine, about how Gwen cried a little before she caught herself, when she realised Arthur had come back alone. It warmed him to know that Merlin had friends he might not have known about, but, at the same time, Arthur felt as though he failed them, all of them – Merlin most of all.

“We’re done,” Matrosova said, startling him from his pain-filled reverie. “Do you want to see?”

She’d done a beautiful job. It was less than an inch tall, but repeated every detail of the pendant – the tree crown, the branches, the stars, the roots – perfectly. Arthur stared at the lines, black and blacker, and felt them burning his skin through, sinking in.

He stumbled out of the tattoo parlour and into the night, and went to sleep in his car. He woke up frozen and sore a few hours later, roused by a steady flow of tourists and a siren of a police car wailing persistently in the distance.

He drove on, found an inn that looked a little less cheery than the others, and slept the day away, back on the road by sunset.

Later, Arthur would like to pretend he’d found the place led by some kind of instinct or higher power, but the truth was, he’d made a mistake. A simple mistake after a night’s driving; he turned left where the map had told him to turn right. He realised his error, but, before he could turn back, a faded road sign caught his eye, trapped by his headlights.

_Ealdor_

Arthur found the small cemetery without any trouble. It was a weird kind of place, very old, and very quiet. There were statues of crying angels over some graves, while others barely had stone plates, half-swallowed by the grass. Time had been kind to some, less so to others.

It was just about six in the morning, and the moist air was chilly, crawling under Arthur’s clothes and clinging to his skin. His jeans were getting steadily soaked through from the tall, wet grass that no one seemed to have touched in ages. Arthur wondered if anyone even lived here, if anyone looked after the graves.

He’d bought flowers when he’d last stopped for petrol, and the bouquet looked rather pathetic now. Arthur himself probably wasn’t looking much better, and, on the one hand, there was no one here to see him, but on the other, it was a bit like meeting the parents, and he wanted to make a good impression.

Most importantly, though, Arthur was here because Merlin could not, and he wanted to do it properly.

He found the grave at last, huddled in the far corner. It had a modest-looking tombstone with an elegant silvery scrawl saying _Hunith Emrys_. So Merlin must have taken his mother’s name, Arthur thought. He’d never realised that before.

There was also a small portrait, and Arthur peered at it, shivering with cold and trepidation. Hunith had the same eyes as Merlin. The photo was black and white and Arthur couldn’t vouch for the colour, but they were the same shape, the same size, and had the same crinkles in the corners. She was smiling in the picture – Merlin’s smile.

Arthur set the flowers on the ground carefully and touched the stone for a moment. It felt warm under his fingers, but he knew it was just an illusion.

“Thank you,” he whispered. And: “You’d be so proud of him.” And: “I’m sorry.”

Hunith was smiling kindly.

Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, turned around, and slowly walked back.

***

The way home seemed shorter, as it always did. Arthur chased after the sun and hummed along with the radio. He stopped for meals, he breathed easier, and, tentatively, started making plans.

Arthur wasn’t made for melancholy – he was a man of action. Sure, he wasn’t close to recovered, but wallowing in self-pity would help no one - at least, not while he was on the clock.

When he drove into Camelot, he almost smiled at the familiar sight that greeted him. Same streets, same shops, same people, hurrying to and fro, laughing, playing with children, exchanging the latest gossip. Arthur smirked wryly. It was reassuring, in a way, to know that nothing was changing when everything had.

He turned into the lonely road leading uphill to the Pendragon manor, his heart giving a little flutter as the house drifted into view.

***

He saw the motorbike first.

It was parked just before the gates, the metal gleaming even through a fine layer of country dust. Heart jumping into his throat, Arthur slammed the brakes so hard that the tyres whined in protest and all but threw himself out of the car.

Merlin was sitting on the edge of the kerb, looking as _Merlin_ as ever – tough boots, frayed jeans, leather jacket, untamed hair. He rose up as Arthur approached, looking at him with a mixture of nervousness and longing.

They stopped in front of each other, staring hungrily, trembling on the verge of fight or flight. Arthur couldn’t say how long it lasted, until he couldn’t take it anymore.

He grabbed Merlin, pulling him into a crushing embrace, burying his face in Merlin’s hair and breathing him in, his chest expanding properly for the first time in what felt like years. He could feel Merlin’s instant reaction, his arms wrapping around Arthur just as tightly, fingers clawing into his sides, betraying his desperation.

Arthur closed his eyes and soaked in their closeness. There were so many things he wanted to say, so many questions to ask and answers to give; confessions to make, apologies to beg for, promises to give – an overflowing rush of words that threatened to implode within him. But the only thing that made it past his lips was a hoarse, harsh whisper.

“Together.”

A question and an answer, both, an order as much as a plea.

Merlin made a dull noise deep in his throat and clutched at Arthur tighter, whispering back just as fiercely. “Together.”

Arthur couldn’t help a choked laugh, and they pulled apart to look at one another. Merlin rested a hand on Arthur’s chest and winced suddenly, as if burned.

“What the—?”

 _Oh_. Arthur tugged at the collar of his shirt, pulling it to the side, so Merlin could see. Merlin gasped, looked up, shaken to the core, tracing the contours of the tattooed tree with trembling fingers.

“ _Fuck_ , Arthur... you—”

Arthur tried to smile at him reassuringly, but before he so much as took in a breath, he was pushed back against the hood of his car and then Merlin was climbing on top of him, kissing him senseless, the tattoo burning under his palm, gold bursting from under his lashes. It hurt more than the initial experience – it stung, and smarted, and _burned like hell_ – but Arthur knew he’d never need another seal or promise. The one he was getting was more permanent than the mark on his skin, more permanent than any kind of vow.

He laughed into the kiss, half-delirious on pain and ecstasy. Yes, Nimueh was still out there, and so was his father, and so was the world at large and all its dangers, but at that moment, Arthur didn’t have a single doubt in his mind that together, they could take it.

Together, they could do anything.

Naive, seventeen, idealistic – Arthur was guilty on all charges, but he didn’t care, because Merlin had chosen this exact brand of madness, too – had chosen to share it with him.

Arthur laughed, and Merlin drank it off his lips, high with it, kissing Arthur better, making them both whole.

***

Later that night, as their bodies were cooling down, still hopelessly entwined and sore in all the right places, Merlin murmured into Arthur’s ear softly, looking at him from under his lashes, suddenly shy.

“When I told you not to... you know. And you said you didn’t listen to me?”

Arthur blushed, grunted.

Merlin bit his lip. “Thing is, um. I didn’t listen to me, either.”

Arthur grinned. It’d be a long time, years probably, until either of them manned up enough to actually say the words, but it didn’t matter. This was good enough.

***

  
_  
**Epilogue**  
_  


In the middle of the night, Arthur woke up to the soft screeching sound of claws against the window. It quieted down soon enough, and Arthur turned on his side, snuggling closer to Merlin under the duvet, grinning in anticipation.

He wasn’t disappointed.

A few minutes later, Morgana’s piercing shriek sliced through the sleeping house, provoked, without a shadow of a doubt, by a dead mouse dropped on her pillow.

  
**THE END**  


**Author's Note:**

> This story hasn’t been Brit-picked. The author humbly hopes that all the inaccuracies can be chalked up to the fact that this is an AU.
> 
> This story is a work of fiction. Names and characters (that do not belong to Shine and BBC) are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, alive or dead or, God forbid, Dr Who scriptwriters, is entirely coincidental.


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